In Love and War
by Penguins Stealing My Sanity
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER NOW UP. Trapper never left, and now BJ’s been assigned to the 4077. The flames of love are fanned, and sparks fly. Slash: HawkeyeTrapper and HawkeyeBJ. Alternately humorous, romantic, angsty, and maybe a little overly dramatic.
1. Lancelot

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with MASH or the Knights of the Round Table. The only profit I make from writing this is my own increased happiness.

Summary: Trapper never left, Henry still died, and Potter's been there a while. Now, BJ's been assigned to the 4077th, sparking a number of emotions in both Hawkeye and Trapper.

**- In Love And War -  
****Chapter One: Lancelot**

Trapper and I were trying to coax open Potter's liquor cabinet—it'd been a tough day in surgery, and I felt we were entitled to some real booze, and Potter either hadn't noticed yet or agreed with my unspoken decision that we needed it—while he addressed his Knights of the Surgical Table. Guinevere was loudly complaining about the general atmosphere in Camelot, as usual, while trusty Dagonet the ferret-faced and cowardly jester sat uselessly at her side; the resident monk looked like he was reciting prayers in his head, which was probably much more exciting than the current conversation, and near-sighted little Merlin was working his magic with the filing cabinets. There!—the cabinet doors swung open, and I passed a bottle of scotch to Bedivere and grabbed three glasses. King Arthur accepted his with a grateful nod—Guinevere was still rambling on as if anyone besides Frank cared—and after downing it, he stood up and planted his fists on his desk, and glared Margaret into silence.

"I called you all here," he said, "because there is something _important_ I needed to talk to you about." Margaret gave an affronted little huff, which Trapper and I mimicked. "With all the wounded we've been getting lately, and the even bigger push they're predicting, I've requested that another surgeon be assigned here, and I-Corps approved the request. Our new surgeon will be coming in later today."

Trapper choked on his scotch, and I felt the need to point out, "Colonel, the Round Table is already full. How do you expect us to fit Lancelot in?"

Six sets of eyes turned to stare at me, and I realized that I'd let a little of my psyche dribble out my ears. A cozy little silence as they all tried to figure out how to react to my nonsense. Potter took the initiative and said, "We'll manage, Pierce—or is it Galahad today?"

"Sir Kay, actually," I corrected. Trapper shoved his fist against his mouth to keep from laughing.

Potter chose—wisely—to ignore me. "Right. Radar—"

"Here's the papers on Dr. Hunnicutt, sir."

"Thank you, Radar. Dr. BJ Hunnicutt," Potter said, reading from the file. "Stanford University, just finished his residency. A top-notch doctor."

"He's coming from the states?" Margaret asked excitedly.

"That's right. Flying in to Kimpo—when's he due in, Radar?" Potter asked a second after Radar had started to say, "His plane just landed, sir, and the MPs'll pick him up on their way back with Klinger."

"That degenerate," Frank muttered.

"How can you say he's a degenerate, Frank?" Trapper demanded. "You haven't even met the guy yet."

"I was _talking_ about that dress-wearing _fruitcake_."

I asked Potter as I refilled his glass, "What'd he try this time?"

"He nailed himself into a box of skivvies we sent back to Supply."

I grinned at Trapper. "How appropriate."

"He might've made it, too, if his beads hadn't jingled so much," Potter said with a wistful smirk.

"Colonel," Frank whined, "that man is a disgrace to this man's army."

"He's doing his best," I said, raising my glass.

"To disgracing the army," Trapper agreed with a lift of his own glass.

"I'll drink to that."

"You'll drink to anything," Frank snapped. "You two are even more of a disgrace than that sicko."

Margaret reached out to rest her pretty little fingers on Frank's arm, silencing whatever idiotic comment would've come out of his lipless mouth next. "Is that all, Colonel?"

"Yes, yes. Dismissed."

Frank and Margaret left the office with their heads together, no doubt plotting how they were going to "mold the new surgeon in their image." Trap and I hung around for a few more shots, and to look through Hunnicutt's repertoire. "We'll have to get to him first, you know," I said to Trap. "A young, impressionable thing like him… If Hot-Lips and Ferret-Face dig their manicured claws into him before we do, there'll be no hope."

"Well, we _are_ the welcoming committee."

"But he's not a nurse. I've never had to welcome anyone of the male persuasion."

"It can't be _that_ different, can it?"

"We'll just have to forgo the usual ending to the welcome."

"But that's my favorite part."

"I don't want you two making Hunnicutt into another terror I have to deal with," Potter interrupted tiredly. "I told you, I want a nice, peaceful stay here until my retirement, and the _two_ of you are already making that difficult enough."

"Don't worry, Colonel," I said. "We'll raise him right."

Trapper wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side. "He'll be the son we never had."

"Our doctor said we couldn't have any of our own," I explained.

"You don't have the figure for it anyway."

"Boys," Potter groaned, "could you kindly take your banter somewhere else? I've got the mother of all headaches."

"Of course, Colonel. We'll kindly take this scotch somewhere else, too—"

"Oh no you don't. Take your mouths, and leave the scotch."

"But Colonel," I said persuasively, "it's for the party."

"What party?"

"The one we're throwing Captain Hunnicutt," Trapper explained.

"I didn't authorize any party."

"Then we'll scratch the party and just take the booze."

"Nice try, Pierce, but no dice."

Trapper took his turn: "Colonel, we don't want to kill the new surgeon on his first night here, and that's just what'll happen if all we have to give him is our lighter fluid. Besides," he added with a grin, "you owe us."

"How's that?" Potter asked suspiciously.

"_We_ put Klinger in the box of underwear."

Potter's eyes narrowed, and his voice rose angrily. "And you expect me to _thank_ you for that?"

"He wanted to tie himself to the bottom of a jeep," I explained.

"We saved his life."

"And saved_ you_ a lot of paperwork."

Potter sighed, shoving his fingers into his eyes. "If I let you have the scotch, will you leave me in peace?"

"Of course," I said soothingly, wrapping my fingers around the neck of the bottle.

"Then take it, quick—I hate sentimental goodbyes."

I shoved the booze inside my bathrobe, and Trap and I hurried off to get everything set up.

**To Be Continued**


	2. Welcome to Hell

**- In Love And War -  
****Chapter Two: Welcome to Hell**

The jeep screeched to a halt—it had to, since the army frowned on MPs running over doctors. I patted the hood of the jeep, which was about six inches from my thighs, and said to the two MPs in the front seats, "We'll take them from here."

They glanced uncertainly at each other. "Are you two doctors?"

Trapper and I looked incredulously at each other. "Can't you tell?" Trap demanded. I thought we looked properly doctoral with our stylish mix of olive drab and Hawaiian; add to that my cowboy hat and Trap's fishing hat, and who could doubt we were surgeons?

While he tried to persuade the MPs we were sane as well as doctors, I stepped around to the side of the jeep. "Klinger, you're looking wonderful today, as usual."

"Thank you, sir," Klinger said, accepting my hand down. "I feel a little rumpled, though. And they took my hat."

"You're the only man I know who can be shipped in a box of underwear and still look good afterwards. And you," I said, turning to the jeep's other occupant, "must be Captain Hunnicutt."

He was young, and as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they come. I'd probably looked like that once, about a hundred years ago, when I'd first come over here and before I realized how terrible it was. He was wearing a clean and pressed dress uniform complete with a hat that shaded most of his features; he took the hat off and smiled uncertainly as he climbed out of the jeep and shook my hand. "BJ." Neatly-cut brown hair, nice blue eyes, an easy smile—handsome.

I returned the smile and firm handshake. "Hawkeye Pierce, M.D."

"Mentally deficient," Trapper explained before seamlessly continuing his conversation with the MPs.

"I'll be your host for the duration of your stay here." I grabbed BJ's bags out of the back seat, and lead him away from the jeep.

"Why 'Hawkeye'?" BJ asked.

"It's from _The Last of the Mohicans_, my dad's favorite book. I throw a fit whenever someone calls me anything else. What about you, what does BJ stand for?"

He smiled, still a little nervous. "Anything you want it to."

I returned the smile. "Ah-hah…I'll decide later. Trap—"

Trapper gave a loose salute to the MPs and jogged to catch up with us; Klinger hitched up his skirt and followed after, taking BJ's bags from me.

"Hullo, bunkie," Trap said cheerfully, shaking BJ's hand. "Trapper John McIntyre, at your service. BJ, right? That stand for anything?"

"Whatever you want it to," BJ said readily. Judging by the quick response time, he was asked that question a lot.

We stopped under the entry sign—"MASH 4077, Best Care Anywhere"—allowing BJ to bask in its glory. "I propose a toast," Trapper announced, pulling the enema bag of scotch from where it'd been hidden in his shirt.

"A brilliant idea!" I agreed, pulling out four martini glasses. BJ's eyes were wide with surprise, and I explained, "Scotch. Do you drink?"

"Once in a while…"

"You'll need it here," Trap said, pouring.

I distributed the glasses, and we raised them high. "To Lancelot," I proclaimed, clapping my hand on BJ's shoulder. "Welcome to Camelot." Trap, Klinger, and I downed the scotch, and BJ tried to follow suit, but ended up choking and coughing at the same time.

"Good stuff, isn't it?" Trapper asked cheerfully as he slapped BJ on the back. "Just wait'll you try the _real_ good stuff."

The toast done, Trap and I re-stowed the goods, and I directed our company towards the main building. "Come, wayward maid and weary traveler—"

"Which one am I?" BJ interrupted, his voice still slightly hoarse from the scotch.

Trapper and I shared a quick grin. Hot-Lips and Ferret-Face didn't have a chance; this doctor had come pre-corrupted. I clapped my hand on the back of BJ's neck and giggled with pure joy. "Which one do you want to be?"

"I've never been a wayward maid before."

"Good choice," Trapper said, nodding philosophically.

Klinger leaned in close to me and whispered, "He's good stuff, Captain. He told me blue is my color."

"Well it is," I whispered back. Trapper and I pulled open the doors leading into the office. "After you, wayward maids. Radar, we have a delivery for Colonel Potter."

Radar jumped up from his seat to salute. "You must be the new surgeon, Cap'n, sir."

"Put that down, Radar," Trapper said sternly, and Radar lowered his hand from the salute.

"BJ Hunnicutt," I said, "meet Corporal Walter O'Reilly."

"Everyone calls me Radar," he said shyly with his characteristic grin and shrug combination.

BJ's head tilted slightly to the side. "Why's that?"

"Well, sometimes I know what's gonna happen before it happens. 'Scuse me, sirs—" He pushed open the door of Potter's office just as Potter bellowed, "Radar!" BJ blinked in surprise and glanced at me; I smiled reassuringly, or at least I hoped it looked reassuring.

"Klinger's back, sir," Radar said into Potter's office, "and so's the new Captain surgeon, Colonel, sir."

Potter came out of his office, and BJ came to attention with a crisp salute. Potter took pity on the poor boy and returned the salute. "Colonel Potter. You must be Captain Hunnicutt."

"Yes sir."

"We found him wandering around outside," Trapper said.

"Lost and cold and alone," I added.

"And in this place, you never know what could happen to a handsome guy like him."

"All the ravenous nurses…"

"I was thinking more the ravenous doctors."

"Can we keep him, Dad?" I begged Potter. "Please, please, _please_? Just look at those eyes…who could say no to those eyes?" Those eyes darted around a little nervously above an uncertain smile.

"Can it, Pierce."

"Canning, sir."

"Radar, you'd better—"

"I'd better go get Majors Burns and Houlihan and Father Mulcahy, yessir," Radar said as he headed out the door.

"Hunnicutt, I'll be with you in a minute. Klinger, step into my office…"

Once Potter and Klinger had gone behind closed doors and out of earshot, Trapper warned BJ, "Prepare yourself."

"For what?" he asked worriedly.

Poetically, I said, "For the Majors Disaster."

"Or the major disasters," Trap amended.

"Interchangeable," I agreed.

"Ferret-Face and Hot-Lips."

BJ tried to suppress a grin, and failed. "I…take it they're not exactly well-liked?"

"Understatement of the century," Trapper said dramatically. "Frank Burns—"

"Ferret-Face," I explained.

"—is a bumbling incompetent."

"And that's putting it nicely."

"Is he a surgeon?" BJ asked.

Trap and I exchanged glances, and he said, "We're not sure."

"I, personally, think he should have been drafted as General MacArthur's personal thumb-sucker."

BJ grinned, a little lopsided like Trapper's. "And the other major?"

I smiled nostalgically up at the ceiling. "Ah, Margaret Houlihan—"

"Hot-Lips," Trapper added with a suggestive grin.

"—is sex on legs."

"Or legs on sex."

I frowned at Trapper. "That doesn't always work, you know."

"It makes sense to me," he said defensively.

"That's because you're an idiot."

"Oh yeah. I forgot."

"They're both regular army."

"By-the-book."

"Whistles and whips."

Trap grinned at me. "I like that."

"Thank you." And back to BJ: "We, and now you, have the misfortune of having to share a tent with Burns. It's not pretty—"

"—but it makes for cheap entertainment," Trapper finished.

BJ was looking a little overwhelmed—and I couldn't say that I blamed him—but he managed a smile. "I take it you two keep life interesting around here?"

Trap shrugged. "We do our best."

"There's only so much one can do with what little we have, and so little of much to do it with."

"Are you sure _you're_ not the idiot?" Trapper asked me.

"I thought you drew the short sausage today."

"Oh yeah. I forgot."

The doors were flung open, and Frank and Margaret came trooping in, followed by Radar and Father. BJ saluted to them—Trap and I would have to cure him of that habit, soon. "Hello, Frank," Trap said.

"Don't you wish," Frank sneered.

Margaret shuffled towards BJ with a flirtatious grin. "Captain Hunnicutt, I presume…?"

"Yes, ma'am." BJ gave her a winning smile. "But I'd appreciate it if you called me BJ."

Her grin widened, and I could practically see the stars dancing in her eyes. "I'm Major Houlihan—_Margaret_ Houlihan, Head Nurse. And I welcome you on behalf of _all_ the nurses of MASH 4077."

"Which half?" Trapper asked innocently.

Margaret glared at us, and said in a very loud undertone to BJ, "I hope these two _pranksters_ haven't given you the wrong impression of our organization here."

"Not at all," BJ said with a reassuring smile. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he winked back.

I leaned over and whispered to Trapper, "I think I'm in love."

"You always were a sucker for blue eyes."

Frank finally took the initiative and stepped forward, tiny chin all aquiver. "Captain, I'm Major Frank Burns, and it's a pleasure to have you here. The 4077th is always ready to accept new members—"

"Since it takes an increasing amount of people to make up for your incompetency," I finished helpfully. When Frank swung to glare at me, I twiddled my fingers cheerfully at him.

Klinger trudged out of the office, even his nose drooping sadly. Potter followed behind him, shaking his head. I reached out to pat Klinger's shoulder comfortingly on his way by. "Keep trying, soldier," I said encouragingly.

"How can you promote something as twisted as what he's doing?" Frank demanded. "It's _disgusting_."

"It's no more disgusting than anything else in this war, Frank," I said.

To BJ, Frank said in a confidential whisper, "He's not _one of us_."

" 'All the people like us are we, and everyone else is They'," I quoted, and BJ looked over at me with surprise and appreciation.

"Kipling."

"Very good," I said with a grin. So he wasn't just another pretty face…

Klinger stopped in front of BJ to salute. "It was nice to meet you, Captain."

"Nice to meet you, too, Corporal," BJ said with a smile. He had a very ready smile, BJ—and it was certainly a nice smile. A _very_ nice smile.

"Can I take your bags to your tent, sir?"

"Thank you, Corporal."

"Out, Klinger," Potter commanded, and Klinger hefted BJ's bags and left the office.

Potter led us all into his office, and I started for the liquor cabinet again, but Potter blocked my way. "You already stole enough scotch from me," he said sternly.

"We shared it with you," I pointed out.

"It was _mine_ to begin with!"

"Fine," I said, tossing my head and turning away to lean against a filing cabinet. BJ was given one of the room's two chairs, and Margaret claimed the other; Frank stood behind her, Trap stood next to me, Father Mulcahy perched on the edge of a table, and Radar hovered near the doors trying to look officious.

"Well, Captain," Potter said, "I assume you've met the whole gang by now."

"I don't believe I got the chance to introduce myself yet, Colonel," Father said, and leaned forward to shake BJ's hand. "Francis John Patrick Mulcahy, chaplain. I do all different kinds of services—"

"Later, padre.

"Oh, of course, Colonel. Forgive me."

"Now, Hunnicutt—things are pretty loose around here, so as long as you keep your nose clean and don't get into too much trouble, we'll get along just fine. To that effect, I'd advise you to keep a safe distance from Captains Pierce and McIntyre."

"Colonel, that's not fair," Trapper protested.

"No, no, I think he's right, Trap. We're bad news."

"But we're loads of fun."

"Well, that's true," I agreed.

"And we throw some great parties."

"We do, don't we?"

"And," Trapper said to BJ in his most persuasive voice, "we have cookies."

BJ tried to keep a straight face. "I do like cookies." Margaret and Frank both looked over at him in alarm.

"Colonel!" Frank shouted. "Are you just going to stand there and—and let these two _degenerates_ corrupt Captain Hunnicutt?"

"And just what would you like me to do, Major?" Potter demanded.

"Well I don't know, you're the commanding officer."

"That's _right_ I am, Burns, and don't you forget it! _I_ give the orders here, not _you_!"

I almost giggled again.

"Now that we have _that_ settled," Potter continued, still glaring at a cowering Frank, "I've gotten word that we'll be getting casualties in soon. Our boys as well as some North Koreans. Hunnicutt, why don't you go change out of those frills and bangles—no use destroying that nice uniform your first day here."

"We'll show you to the Swamp," I said quickly, and Trap and I hurried forward to drag BJ up from his chair before Margaret could think of some excuse to claim him. Once safely outside, I informed BJ, "We _were_ going to get you nice and drunk…"

"But the army doesn't like it when we operate drunk," Trapper finished sadly.

BJ said with just the right touch of sarcasm, "I can't imagine why."

"Neither can we," I said glibly, opening the door of the Swamp. "That's your small and uncomfortable bunk over there. That one is Frank's—if you have any sort of trash, feel free to throw it there."

"The maid hasn't been in to clean yet," Trapper explained, seeing how BJ was looking around. "She should be here in about ten years."

"Or at the end of the war, whichever comes first."

BJ's eyes settled on the still, and his eyebrows rose. "Is that…what I think it is?"

"It is indeed," I said proudly. "A good old non-army-regulation still. Creates a tonic for all occasions, guaranteed to destroy all five senses."

"We'd offer you some, but…"

"I think I'll take a rain check," BJ said, switching his dress uniform for fatigues.

"Good choice," I said, gazing appreciatively at his bare back before he pulled on his olive drab t-shirt. Trapper rolled his eyes at me. "We wouldn't want to kill you before you got the chance to operate."

And then it came—the whir of the choppers overhead, and Trap and I were already halfway out the door before the announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Incoming wounded again, folks. Both shifts to the O.R. It's gonna be a long night."

"C'mon, BJ," I called. "We're on!"

**TBC**


	3. Wounds

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Three: Wounds**

Trapper jumped on the ambulance to go meet the choppers, and BJ and I went to help pull bodies off the bus. I kept an eye on him—he got very pale, not as bright-eyed or bushy-tailed anymore, but he handled himself well. Frank took charge of pre-op—it was the easiest way to keep him from operating on the most severely wounded kids—and BJ and I joined Potter in the scrub room.

"How you feeling, son?" Potter asked BJ.

"My heart's beating about a hundred miles a minute," he confessed.

"Just relax," I advised. "Breathe. Meatball surgery isn't _quite_ as terrifying as it sounds."

"Thanks _ever_ so much."

"You'll be fine."

Potter leaned over and said softly to me, "I want you to keep an eye on him, Pierce. Teach him all the shortcuts, make sure he doesn't fall apart."

I had BJ take care of a fairly simple chest wound for his first surgery in Korea, and he froze for a moment when they first laid the kid out on the table; but then he sprung into action, proving that he had just as much skill as anyone else around here. I pointed out a few places where he could save a little time, but I left him mostly to himself and made sure Margaret stayed with him to help if he needed it.

I'd just finished up with a kid who'd come in missing half his insides, when I heard BJ swear softly, and Margaret said, "No pulse. We're losing him, doctor."

"No, we're not!" BJ growled, pounding a fist down on the patient's chest. There were the first touches of panic in his voice.

I stepped up behind him, said calmly, "Open him up. Massage the heart."

He glanced at me over his shoulder, eyes wide and face pale, sweating. "I've never done that before."

"I'm here," I said. "Rib spreader. Go on, doctor, make the incision."

Margaret was staring at me, looked like she was about to say something; I shook my head slightly at her, saw her swallow hard and give a small nod before she grabbed the rib spreader from Kellye, waiting. BJ stood over his patient, scalpel in one hand, and I thought he'd frozen again; then, slowly but confidently, he drew the little knife in a line down the chest. I told him what to do, keeping my voice calm in order to keep him calm, and he did everything perfectly. But—as I knew, as Margaret knew, as everyone but BJ knew—the patient was too far gone. There was nothing that could be done to save him, and I finally grabbed BJ's arm and pulled him gently away, saying softly, "Enough, BJ. He's gone."

"No!" BJ said fiercely, sweat and tears mingling to dampen his mask. "I won't lose him—!"

"It's over," I said more firmly, and nodded toward the gas-passer, who pulled the mask away from the kid's face.

BJ kept going for about a half a minute more until, finally, his hands stilled and he let me pull him away from the body. "Corpsmen," I called, and they came to carry away the litter. BJ watched them go, and then tore away from me, sprinting out of the room.

"You got him, Hawkeye?" Trapper called.

"Take it easy with him, Pierce," Potter said as I started after BJ.

I found him outside, bent over a garbage can, retching. I went over to him, rested my hands gently on his shoulder and back, until he stopped heaving and was merely leaning against the can for support, his whole body shaking with quiet tears. "You knew he wouldn't make it," he accused, his voice shaking as much as his body.

"I did."

"Then _why_, damnit?" Such a simple question, but it held so many emotions. He sounded like a lost and scared and confused little child, and my heart went out to him.

Softly, with the wound still as raw and painful as the day I'd received it, I said, "My first patient here was a kid who'd had half his chest blown away. It was amazing he'd made it as far as he did. Our C.O. at the time, Henry Blake, gave the kid to me, told me to save him. I did everything I could for that kid, with Henry watching and telling me what to do, but there was just too much damage. And after it all, I ran out here and did the same thing you just did, and I called Henry a heartless son of a bitch and a few other names. And I'll never forget what he said to me. He said, 'It's the damn war that's heartless. We're the ones who have to have hearts.' You can't save every kid who comes through here, but you have to try, so you can look everyone in the eye and say, 'I did everything I could to save him.' That's what it's about here."

"How do you do it? How can you…how can you stand to just watch them _die_?"

"I can't," I said simply. "That's why I do everything I can to save each and every one of them, so the bastard doesn't win."

Still bent over the garbage can, he finally tilted his head to look up at me. "Who?"

"Death. Out there, they're fighting the war against Korea or China or Communism or whatever it is we've decided we hate today; but in here, the war we're fighting is against death."

He shook his head, gave a half-sob, half-laugh, and said, "I think I hate it here."

"You'd be inhuman if you didn't. Come on back inside. The waiting room's full, and we're out of magazines."

He straightened slowly and, after wiping fiercely at his cheeks, looked me in the eye and smiled very faintly. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"That's what they tell me," I said, and threw my arm around his shoulders, leading him back into the scrub room.

It was a fairly heavy load of casualties, the hour hand taking a trip and a half around the clock face before I finally called for another body and was told there weren't any more. I helped BJ finish up with his last patient, a leg amputation, and then we all trudged into the scrub room. BJ sat down heavily on the bench, dropping his head into his hands; I sat on one side of him, and Trapper sat on his other. "How're you doing?" I asked gently.

"Three," he said gruffly. I could hear the tears in his voice.

"I lost four my first day here," I said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Six," Trapper said grimly.

A "Three," from Potter.

Frank said nothing, stripping his scrubs off as fast as possible and hurrying from the room. I didn't blame him for not wanting to share, considering Trap and I knew the number.

"Does it ever get easier?" BJ asked softly, desperately.

I sighed. "You want the truth? Yeah, it does. That's the worst part."

Trapper stood up and started to pull off his scrubs. "Come on," he said to BJ. "We still owe you that drink."

"Mind if I join you boys?" Potter asked.

"The more the merrier."

"You're a damn fine surgeon, Hunnicutt," Potter said with fatherly pride as we walked slowly out of the room. "Sure am glad they sent you here."

"I can't say I'm glad to be in Korea," BJ said with a faint, tired smile, "but if I _have_ to be here, this seems like as good a place as any to be."

Potter smiled, and clapped BJ on the shoulder. "Welcome to the family, BJ."

**TBC**


	4. Trapped

Disclaimer: The quotes belong to Einstein, Lewis Carroll, and Mark Twain, in that order. I don't claim to own them, or the MASH characters.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Four: Seeds of Jealousy**

It was a lazy day, one of those days where a man could lay in his bed in peace, wearing his favorite bathrobe, drinking his favorite martini, and not have to worry about anything. At least, that's the kind of day it would have been if it hadn't happened to be night. I, man, lay contentedly on my bunk in my bathrobe, martini in one hand, the other hand tucked behind my head, and proclaimed, " 'The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible.' "

"Einstein," BJ said promptly from the other corner of the tent.

"Right. Your turn."

"Let's see…" He raised his voice to a falsetto and whined, " 'But I don't want to go among mad people.' "

I propped myself up on one elbow with a grin, and said mischievously, " 'Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.' "

" 'How do you know I'm mad?' "

" 'You must be. Or you wouldn't have come here.' "

"Will you two ninnering nancies shut up?" Frank squealed from his own bunk, where he was busily pretending to read a newspaper by the light of his lamp. "_Some_ of us are _trying_ to _concentrate_." I always enjoyed Frank's sporadic enunciation.

"Here's one for you, Frank: 'It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.' "

BJ laughed. "Mark Twain."

Frank put on his peeved face and hid back behind his papers. He and Margaret were still smarting from the fact that BJ had shunned them and joined Trapper and me, and was doing swimmingly under our tutelage. He'd adapted to life at the 4077th very well over the past week, his good looks and ready smile making everyone take an instant liking to him. There were a lot of similarities between him and Trap (I found myself unable to _not_ compare them), but there were just as many, if not more, differences. Trapper didn't have the patience for reading or chess; BJ didn't seem to understand (yet) the value in just going crazy for an hour or two, in throwing inhibition to the wind. Trapper was energy itself, all explosive force; BJ had just as much energy, but it was more contained. He enjoyed a good practical joke as much as Trapper and I, and he was wonderfully quick-witted and intelligent; but he was a little more reserved, quieter, more mysterious. He was married and had a baby daughter, and was completely devoted to them both—not devoted like Trapper, who'd started sleeping with nurses almost the moment he'd arrived; BJ said he would never cheat on his wife, and I believed him.

And his eyes.

Eyes had always fascinated me. "The eyes are the mirror of the soul," as the proverb went, and if that was true, BJ's soul was the most beautiful one I'd ever seen. It was a wonder the whole camp didn't drown in those pools of blue.

Just to make Frank paranoid, I got up and went to sit on BJ's cot and whispered in his ear, "Pretend to be surprised." He caught on fast and started laughing softly, with a very nice expression of shock on his face.

Frank's eyes appeared over the top of the newspaper just as I looked very pointedly in his direction.

BJ cupped his hands around my ear and whispered, "What else?" I snickered loudly into my elbow.

"You two are talking about me again, I know it," Frank snapped, crumpling his paper into his lap in anger.

I pulled away from BJ, acting affronted. "How dare you suggest it."

"I take umbrage at that," BJ said defensively.

"I took umbrage once, and I couldn't sleep for a week."

A tap at the door, and Radar stuck his head in. "Cap'n Hunnicutt, sir, Cap'n McIntyre wanted me to come remind you that have post-op duty now, and uh, that he doesn't…you know, he, uh, he doesn't want to be there all night…"

"Is it my shift already?" BJ asked, surprised.

"Yessir," Radar said, "2100 hours. And Cap'n Pierce, Cap'n McIntyre said he wanted to talk to you, and if you weren't too busy he wanted to see you in post-op. He said it wasn't no emergency, there was just somethin' he wanted to ask you about."

Sighing, I rose and followed BJ out of the tent. "I wanted to check on that Simmons kid before I went to bed, anyway. Radar, did Trapper mention what he wanted to ask me?"

"No, sir, just that he wanted to talk you about somethin'."

"I hate mysterious 'somethings'. They're so…"

"Mysterious?" BJ offered.

"Exactly."

"Well, it's about time!" Trapper exclaimed the moment we stepped into post-op. He gave BJ a semi-serious glare and a stern frown. "You have to keep track of when your shift is. I can't stay here all night. I have things to do, too, you know?"

"Sorry, Trapper," BJ said with an unsorry grin. "It's Hawkeye's fault."

"Isn't it always," Trap said sourly, turning the glare to me.

I turned my back to both of them in a huff, and grabbed Simmons's chart and sat on the edge of the kid's bed. "How're you feeling, Tom?"

Simmons smiled sleepily. "Not too bad, doc. I can wiggle my toes now."

"You'll be wiggling the whole leg in no time," I said, ruffling his hair. "Try to get some sleep."

Trap was just finishing going through the patients' stats with BJ, so I waited for him to finish and made a pass at Nurse Able while waiting. It wasn't a very serious pass, so I wasn't too hurt when she turned me down, and the minute or two of casual banter took up enough time that Trapper was ready to go when Able walked away from me with a shake of her head. "Have fun," I called over my shoulder to BJ as Trapper and I left. Outside, I said to Trapper, "You're being a little hard on him, aren't you? He needs a little time to adjust to everything over here."

"He's had a week," Trapper said sourly.

"What's eating you, Trap?" I demanded, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him to a halt. "BJ's a great kid—you said so yourself."

Trapper scuffed his boot in the dirt, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on the ground. He finally mumbled something of which I heard nothing. "I can't hear you when you don't move your lips," I pointed out, and he lifted his head to glare at me.

"I said that I'm—" Eyes back to the ground, and voice lowering almost to inaudible. "—jealous."

"Jealous?" I repeated incredulously. "Of _BJ_?"

Defensively, he said, "Well, you're spending more time with him than you are with me."

I knew it wasn't nice, but I couldn't help laughing a little. I slapped my hand on the back of his neck and said, "Trapper, BJ is like a…like a new puppy. An adorable new puppy. You have to take time to train the puppy, and make sure it settles into its new home. You have to make sure the puppy knows it's loved. But _you_, John McIntyre, are the faithful old hound dog who _already _knows it's loved, and whose duty it is to help make sure the puppy is happy."

"Everyone loves puppies more than old dogs."

"At the beginning, yes, because they've already loved the old dog for a _very_ long time. But the puppy will grow up and settle in, and very soon, it won't _need_ the constant love and attention. But if we don't create a caring environment for the puppy _now_, he'll end up wetting in both our beds."

"That makes a weird sort of sense, you know."

"I do my best."

"Well, the old dog's still feeling a little ignored," he said, his eyes slanted suggestively at me.

There was no one around, but it suddenly felt like the whole camp was staring at us—one set of eyes in particular boring into my back, accusing, condemning. And despite the shame I felt at the thought of those eyes, those blue eyes, watching us, watching me, I could feel the heat pooling to my groin under the intense stare of brown, not blue, eyes. Trapper smiled knowingly and, without a word, turned and walked toward the supply tent. And I, the trusty, obedient old dog, followed.

We'd managed to restrain ourselves for the past week—with BJ around, there wasn't much time for us to sneak off on our own anyway—so we had a week's worth of built-up tension to release. Trapper pulled me roughly into the tent and shoved me back against the door, crushing his mouth against mine, our hips grinding. I tilted my head back with a gasp, his mouth attacking my throat as he fumbled to untie the belt of my robe and, finally succeeding, shove the bathrobe off my shoulders. It landed in a sad little pool of red on the floor, soon joined by the green pond of my pants; then the white river of Trap's lab coat and the olive drab seas of his own shirt and pants; and, finally, two matching puddles of army-regulation boxer shorts.

His mouth returned to mine for a brief, forceful kiss before he flipped me, pressing my front against the door and pressing his own front against my back. His fingers digging into my hips, he buried his face against my neck, breathing heavily, preparing… I was trapped (not unhappily), and about to be Trapped. I moaned softly when he finally entered me, pressing my face against the solidity of the door, one of my hands snaking down to wrap around my own solidity.

It was lust, pure animal lust, and nothing more—it just happened that, every once in a while, we each wanted something more interesting than a nurse. A whole new meaning to the phrase "comrades in arms."

His hand reached around me, his fingers wrapping around mine, joining me in my quest for personal satisfaction. It was the least he could do, considering I was giving him most of what little dignity I'd managed to maintain in this place. Not that I really minded giving it up, because _damn_ it felt good… I arched my back, throwing my head back against his shoulder, and moaned his name softly into the silence of the room. I felt his smile against the side of my neck, and I brought my free hand up to grab his hair, lifting his head and twisting my face around to bring our mouths together, hungrily, as he moved in and out, steadily in and out, back and forth, like the waves of an ocean, a sea of blue—pure, beautiful blue—

I bit my lip to keep from making too much noise as I came into our overlapping hands; Trapper shoved his face against my shoulder to achieve the same ends. I leaned heavily against the door, gasping slightly, Trapper leaning heavily on me and making an uncomfortably warm spot on my shoulder; we stood there until we'd both gotten our breath back, and then moved away, redressing in silence. There was no need for words, and Trapper wasn't good with words anyway. I merely had the need to wonder aloud, "Do you think this place will ever be clean again?"

"Do you think it was clean to begin with?"

"Probably not. But I doubt the rats have ever had so much entertainment."

"I think the cockroaches are enjoying it more. They've started crawling into my bed at night and asking for a midnight show."

"Those dirty cockroaches. Speaking of dirty, I'm feeling the overwhelming need to shower."

"Don't let me keep you. I was gonna go see if Nurse Grant needs anything inventoried, and then I was thinking about tormenting Frank for a bit…"

"You really know how to live," I said with a grin as I tied my bathrobe and slipped out of the room. I stopped in the Swamp just long enough to grab my toiletries, and then I took a nice, long shower, scrubbing parts of me I didn't even think could get dirty. Being with Trapper was always satisfying, but it often left me feeling less clean than usual, which I had no way of explaining. And, with the thought of blue eyes flittering in and out of my mind constantly, I was feeling particularly dirty.

I really wished I came with an instruction manual. I'd like to know why the hell I acted like I did.

**TBC**


	5. Daydream

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Five: Blood and Rats**

"He's holding up well," Potter murmured, pausing to watch as I fixed a lacerated aorta.

"He's adapting," I agreed, watching BJ's back as he pieced together a soldier's leg. He still got a little pale every time we stepped into the O.R., but he could handle the blood and the death as well as could be expected after only two and a half weeks. He was always quiet after we left the O.R., but Trap and I could usually get him unquieted with our moonshine gin. We'd managed to loosen him a bit, too—though I'd done most of the loosening, since Trapper still seemed to be nursing his jealousy, despite our frequent sojourns into the supply tent.

"I got a pair of hands, if anyone needs 'em," Trapper announced, stepping away from his table.

"I could use a little help," BJ called.

If I hadn't been listening for it, I probably wouldn't have heard the slight pause before Trapper said brightly, "Sure thing, BJ. Be right there. Nurse, glove me—glove me with all your heart." I held Trapper's eyes for a moment, trying to look stern; he winked and went to join BJ. "Damn, this kid's a mess. Sorry, Father."

"Oh, that's quite all right, my son. I understand the incredible stress you're all under, and it's hardly…"

Blood spurted from the chest cavity, covering me from scrub cap to apron and everything in between. "Shit—! Baker, clamp that—_clamp_ it, damnit!"

"You all right, Pierce?" Potter demanded.

"Suction—I can't _see_ anything. _Suction_, Baker! What're you doing?"

"Sorry, doctor—"

"Don't be sorry, just _do_ it! There we go—ah, there you are, you little bastard. Found you."

"Whatcha got, Hawk?" Trapper called.

"Shrapnel, lodged in the pulmonary artery. Clamp… Pull that back a little…"

"You need help?"

"No, no, don't mind me. Just plucking bits of metal out of a baby's chest."

"What's wrong, Pierce?" Frank sneered, and I could just imagine the glee in his tiny little eyes. "War getting to you today?"

"Frank, if you don't shut up, my foot is gonna be lodged up your—"

"That's enough," Potter ordered at the same moment Father Mulcahy, aghast, exclaimed, "Hawkeye!"

"Sorry, folks, you'll have to tune in next week to hear the rest of the show. There!" I threw the final piece of shrapnel into the dish. "Baker, my dear, would you close for me? Anyone need a hand? What about you, butter-fingers?"

"I'm doing just fine!" Frank shouted in that lovely high-pitched voice of his. "Keep your nose in your own beeswax."

"All right, then—Klinger, bring me another body."

Klinger stuck his head into the room and said cheerfully, "No more, sir. The Colonel got the last one."

"No more?" I repeated. "How's that possible?"

"Maybe they've declared peace," BJ suggested.

"No, they wouldn't let you out of it that easy. Well," I said, trying to wipe some of the blood off my arms with my apron, "since no one needs me, I'll be in the shower if anyone needs me, and unless it's a soft, willing nurse, no one had better need me."

I was in the middle of scrubbing and soaping off as many layers of skin as I needed to in order to clean the blood out of my pores, when the door opened. Enter—BJ. "Hello, sailor," I said cheerfully. "You come here often?"

"Only after a day like today," he said tiredly, hanging up his bathrobe and getting into the other stall. "You've, uh, got a little blood in your hair."

Growling, I grabbed my bar of soap and attacked my head with it, then doused myself with water. My hair was plastered flat to my skull, covering my eyes completely, when I turned to look at BJ and ask, "Better?"

"Much. You almost look normal like that."

The door opened again; I shook my head like a dog to clear my sight, and BJ and Trapper both shouted protests. "Hello, sailor," I said to Trapper. "You come here often?"

"You already asked me that," BJ pointed out.

"I know, and you still haven't bought me a drink."

"You gonna be much longer in there, Hawk?" Trap demanded. "There're other people who want to get clean, too, you know."

"I'll be done when I'm done," I said, running my hand back through my hair to keep it out of my eyes. Trapper harrumphed and shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning his shoulder against the wall and watching, seeing _everything_. I was glad the water was cold.

"Hey, Trapper," BJ said, "I wanted to thank you for helping me with that kid's leg."

Trapper shrugged, said modestly, "It was nothing."

"It won't be nothing to that kid. I don't think I could've saved the leg without your help."

"You did most of the work," Trapper said. "I was just there for, uh, moral support." He smirked faintly. "You do good work, BJ."

Surprised, I raised my eyebrows inquisitively at Trapper, then turned to look at BJ, who was slightly flushed with happiness, grinning, his eyes sparkling. Ah, those eyes, the wonderful eyes…and once you noticed the eyes, you couldn't help but notice the mouth, the slightly lopsided grin and perfect white teeth; and then the firm chin, of course, sprinkled with the faintest of stubble; and once you'd gotten that far, it hardly made sense not to go on to the neck, the corded muscle and bobbing Adam's apple, blending seamlessly into those strong, broad shoulders; and then it was only a few more inches down to the chest, muscular, beautifully sculpted, slightly hairy, with a trail of hair leading down further; and if you leaned forward just a little, you could follow the path of the hair, down, down—

"Hawkeye?"

My eyes snapped back up to his face, the quizzical expression. "What?" I demanded, trying not to sound guilty, hoping my face wasn't as red as it felt.

"That's what I was about to ask you." BJ was still smiling faintly, looking like he was trying not to laugh, and his eyes were still— _No, damnit! Stop!_

"I, uh, I—I thought I saw a rat," I said, and quickly looked away from him. Thank _God_ the water was cold.

"Oh." Amusement in his voice, tone clearly implying that he didn't believe me for a second. I couldn't say I blamed him.

"Was it a big rat?" Trapper asked, grinning shamelessly from ear to ear.

"Yes," I snapped. "_Huge_. Bigger than any other rat I've ever seen." I yanked the chain to shut off the water and stepped out of the stall, unashamedly giving myself over to Trapper's grinning scrutiny as I toweled myself dry. As he stepped into the stall, I grabbed my bathrobe, tied it firmly around myself, and announced, "I'm leaving now." Grab the cowboy hat off the hook, shove it on my head, and walk proudly out the door.

"We'll miss you, dear," Trap called after me.

The Swamp was empty, quiet, peaceful, and I dropped onto my cot with a relieved sigh, tilting my hat down over my eyes. I should have been tired, but I wasn't, not really; I just wanted a little peace—peace from the world, and peace from my own damn mind. But not matter how hard I thought about not thinking, no matter how much I swore at myself, no matter how many memories about dirt and blood and death and everything else I hated that I pulled up, even in the darkness inside my hat, I still saw blue. _Why?_ Why did his eyes follow me everywhere? Nurse Watson had blue eyes, and I didn't spend every waking minute thinking about them. _Margaret_ had blue eyes, but they didn't haunt my dreams. All right, so it wasn't the _color_ of the eyes—then what? If only I could make sense, just once. Things would be that much easier.

**TBC**


	6. Love

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Six: Love**

Potter said the fighting had cooled down for a bit, which was a relief after a nineteen-hour shift in the O.R.; add to that the joy of having Frank away on R&R, and I was feeling downright giggly; add to _that_ a generous amount of gin, and I was flying high. BJ was in post-op for the night, which meant Trapper and I had the Swamp to ourselves for the first time in forever; so I wasn't really surprised when he started stumbling around turning off lights before crawling onto my cot with me for a little midnight groping.

In the pre-BJ days, we'd gotten good at being quiet late at night; Frank slept through almost anything, so as long as Trapper didn't make me scream, we'd figured we were safe. Habit kept us quiet still, even though we were the only ones in the Swamp; a few gasps, a little soft moaning into each other's shoulders, the slight creaking of my bunk—not much to break the nighttime silence.

In the darkness, I could look up into Trapper's face; and in the darkness, where I could only see the flickering light of passion in the inky pools of his eyes, I could pretend they were blue—depthless blue eyes I could get lost in so easily, a blue I wanted to drown in. In my mind I could pretend the eyes were blue, not brown, could allow myself to wonder (and to hope) if those eyes would someday be blue and not brown, if I wouldn't have to _pretend_ to see blue because it really _would_ be blue, that wonderful, perfect blue…

He rolled off me afterwards, grabbed his bathrobe off the floor and wrapped himself in it, then sat in the chair near my bunk. Still sprawled on my back I asked him sleepily, "Something on your mind?"

"Yeah," he said, pursing his lips. "I'm going to ask you two questions, and I want you to answer honestly. Can you do that?"

"Is that the first question?"

He leaned forward and grabbed my chin, dragging my face and the rest of my body up, so I was sitting and staring into his eyes. I would have pushed him away, but he held me immobile by the sheer force of his will. Very softly, he asked, "You were thinking about _him_, weren't you?"

I did what I thought was a pretty good impression of a fish, opening and closing my mouth a dozen or so times, and not blinking. I finally choked out, "No—" but his level stare made me revise the negative to an affirmative with a soft, embarrassed, "Yes."

"Okay, that's one. Now for the big one: Are you falling for him?"

I couldn't look away, and so by not answering, I gave him the most honest answer he was ever likely to get out of me. But I had to make at least some small attempt to defend myself and my honor: "It's just…his eyes. I think I'm in love with his eyes."

"Uh-huh." Trap said skeptically, finally releasing my chin. He knew better than to believe me. "You're setting yourself up for a lot of pain, you know. He's a married man."

"So're you."

He stood up and went back to his own cot, saying over his shoulder, "You're not in love with me." A simple fact, true beyond all doubt—this wasn't love, this was just sex. And for once, I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

In the darkness, I lay back down on my bunk, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling. _Love._ It couldn't be love. It was just…a very deep friendship. A recognition of my appreciation of his mind and his body. Not love. Trapper didn't know what he was talking about. Trap _never_ knew what he was talking about.

"You know what you need?" he said into the darkness. "A few days of R&R. Make the rounds of all the geisha-houses. Have anonymous sex a couple dozen or so times. Get your mind off…things."

"What I _need_," I corrected, grabbing my bathrobe and heading for the door, "is a walk."

It was cool outside, the Korean summer changing rapidly into winter. It'd probably be subzero by the end of the week. I realized belatedly that it would have been smart to put pants on, but now that I was outside, I didn't want to go back in. So I let my feet move themselves forward, taking me wherever they willed; but my feet were unoriginal, and I ended up making circles around the compound—which was fitting, since that was the same shape my mind was making.

_I can't be in love with him. That would be just plain foolish—and I know I'm not the most intelligent guy around, but I can't be_ that _stupid, can I? I suppose I could be. I probably am._

_Damnit._

_It's his eyes. That's all it is. I just have an intense appreciation for the beauty of his eyes. And of course, what's behind his eyes. And the face his eyes are in. An appreciation of every aspect of his being. That's not love._

_So what if it _is_ love? That wouldn't be terrible, would it? Yeah, it probably would be. Except for the parts of it that would be good. Really good. A few bad parts, but it'd be mostly good. Almost all good. But it can't be love, so it can't be good, so why am I even thinking this?_

I finally forced my feet and my mind to stop, and stood in the compound, hands shoved deep into my pockets and staring out into the night. " 'Lest he should wander irretrievably from the right path,' " I told the darkness with a sigh, " 'he stands still.' "

"Hazlitt," a voice said to my left: BJ, standing just outside post-op, leaning against the wall and watching me with a smile. "Trouble sleeping?"

"I think too much. I can't ever seem to stop thinking. I'm _always_ thinking."

"I know the feeling," he said, wandering over to stand at my side. "What's got you walking in circles?"

"You've been watching me," I accused—not angrily, just a statement of fact. And an easy way to avoid answering the question.

He shrugged. "I saw you through the window, and there's nothing exciting going on in post-op, so I figured I'd come join you—unless you want to be alone with your over-thinking."

"No, please, my mind could use the break."

"You want to keep going in circles, or would you mind coming to the supply tent with me?"

Cue shock. "The…the supply tent?"

"Yeah, I wanted to grab a few extra blankets. A little birdie told me winter's coming."

_Get your mind out of the gutter,_ I ordered myself, and gave BJ a smile. "This is nothing!" I said as we started towards the supply tent, motioning down towards my bare legs (which were feeling quite chilly, though I wasn't about to reveal that). "Just you wait until winter _really_ gets here."

"I can't wait," he said wryly.

As we browsed through the supply tent, searching for blankets (since I only knew where the spare mattresses were), I asked him, "So, what do you think so far about our merry little hellhole?"

"It's terrible. I don't think I'll ever figure out how you can stand this place."

I gave a small, surprised laugh. "What makes you think I _can_ stand it?"

"You cope with being here better than anyone else I've seen. You—you go through all this, and you can still crack a joke at the end of the day. You manage to stay sane."

"Beej, I don't know if you realize this, but the jokes are what keep me sane. I have to go _in_sane to _stay_ sane, or else I'd go crazy."

"Hawkeye Pierce," he said with a laugh, "I have never met anyone like you."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment, but that's how I'm going to take it."

We finally found the blankets and took them back to post-op. Since I 1) was not feeling tired, and 2) didn't particularly want to leave present company, I showed BJ where we hid the deck of playing cards meant to pass the uneventful late-night shift, and we played a few hands of gin at the duty station before my body and brain decided to gang up on me and send me stumbling back to the Swamp. I collapsed facedown onto my bunk, and fell asleep with a little smile on my face.

**TBC**


	7. Over the Rainbow

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Seven: Over the Rainbow**

I was sandwiched between Trapper and BJ in the mess tent the next morning, only the pressure of both their shoulders against mine keeping me from slumping into my meal. Turns out I don't operate too well on three hours of sleep out of forty-eight. I was in the middle of sleepily sniffing the bluish-green something on my tray, when Potter stepped up to the head of the table and announced, "I'm glad I have all three of you here."

My fingers chose that moment to loosen up their hold on my fork for no apparent reason, and it dropped onto my tray with a clatter. I mumbled a surprised "Uh-oh," which Potter wrongly took as a criticism of his being there.

"Why, thank you, Captain smart-mouth—you've just volunteered."

I blinked blearily up at him. "Wha—Colonel—!"

"For what, you ask? Good question! You and Major Houlihan will be going to assist the 8063rd for the rest of today and most of tomorrow, too."

"But Colonel," I protested, trying to dredge up some logic, "we're already short-handed without Frank, and if you send me—"

"We won't be getting any more casualties for a while, Pierce—they've all been sent to the 8063, which is _why_ they need help. Your jeep will be leaving in about a half-hour, and it'd better have _you_ in it."

Trapper tried to say something in my defense, but Potter was already walking away. I groaned and let my head drop onto the table; luckily, Trapper moved faster than I did, and pulled my tray out of the way of my head. BJ, confused, asked, "Why don't they just send some of the wounded here?"

"'Cause that would make sense," Trapper said sourly. "And we can't have any of that in the army."

"They hate me there," I whined. Trapper patted my shoulder consolingly. "They think I'm crazy! I mean, I try to liven up the O.R. with a little singing, and the C.O. threatens to have me court-martialed! And the nurses won't flirt with me! How can I work under those conditions?"

"We think you're crazy here," BJ pointed out.

"But _here_, you all think of it as a good, adorable crazy. _There_, they think of it as a 'stuff him in a sack and throw him in the river, and _then_ have him court-martialed' crazy."

BJ, with a very touching amount of concern in his voice, said, "Well, I could go for you, Hawkeye. I've been told I'm considered loveable by all ages, races, and creeds."

"Thanks, Beej," I said sincerely, "but Potter wouldn't allow it. 'Sides, you're still trying to learn the ropes here—it'd be cruel to send you over to that place and make you learn _their_ twisted set of rules."

"Captain Pierce," God said from above and behind me. Oh, wait—it was only Margaret. Not God, but close. "Our jeep leaves in approximately twenty-six minutes, with or without you."

"Is that multiple choice?" I asked hopefully, lifting my head. "'Cause I choose without."

"Ha ha," she said stonily. "Twenty-five minutes, Captain."

"You said it was twenty-six a minute ago," I complained. She smiled tolerantly and turned away. To BJ, I confided, "She's in love with me. Her complete indifference makes it obvious, don't you think?"

"Without a doubt," BJ agreed.

I put my hands on the table and used them to propel myself upwards. Amazingly, I made it to standing. "Well, I'd better go pack. Should I wear my tux, or do you think I should just go in the buff?"

"You tried the tux last time," Trapper reminded me.

"Oh, yeah, and they didn't like it at all." I grinned, and Trap and I said together, "Tux."

Precisely twenty-four minutes later, I lay asleep on my cot, dreaming happily about blue eyes. Some idiot woke me with the obnoxious honking of a horn, and I rolled onto the floor, crawling on hands and knees to stick my head out the door and shout at the idiot—who happened to be Margaret. "Captain Pierce!" she shrilled. "Have you been _sleeping_?"

"No," I lied defensively, and crawled back inside. The cot was too high up, so I just curled into a ball on the floor. The horn again—and again, and again; I covered my ears with my hands and ignored it, until I heard a door slam, booted feet stomping nearer and nearer to my head, and then the banshee screech: "Captain _Pierce_!"

I rolled my head to look up at her. "Yes, Mommy?"

"We have to _leave_!"

"Okay, but you'll have to carry me."

She made a wordless noise of anger, and stomped back out of the Swamp. Oh, good, more sleep. I burrowed my face happily into a discarded shirt on the floor, and slept.

"Okay, Hawk," Trapper said in my ear, and I realized I was no longer laying on the ground. I seemed to be upright, in fact. I blinked blearily to my left—BJ—and then to my right—Trapper. Fingers wrapped around my arms. My boots dragging on the ground.

"I can walk, I can _walk_," I snapped, trying to shrug their hands off and get my feet under me. It didn't work, which led me to determine that I _couldn't_ walk, and so it was probably best they were dragging me after all.

"Okay, _up_sie-daisy." A hard, uncomfortable seat, hands tugging at my legs and shifting me around. A weight settled onto my head—my helmet—and Trapper said soothingly, "There you go, Hawk. Just go back to sleep."

"Is he _drunk_?" Margaret asked, alarmed.

"No, he's just tired," BJ said.

"He didn't get to bed until around three this morning."

"What was he doing up so late?"

BJ tried to explain in his own defense, "He said he couldn't sleep. He wanted to stay up with me in post-op."

"That so?" Trapper asked, and I could hear it in his voice—jealousy.

_Oh, dear God_—I was leaving BJ alone with Trapper…and, knowing, Trap, he'd do something _extremely_ stupid. "I can't go," I proclaimed, trying to swing my legs back out of the jeep; my helmet slipped down over my eyes, blinding me, but a little darkness wasn't about to stop Hawkeye Pierce, no sir. "I have to stay here—I have, I have patients—"

"I'll take care of them, Hawk," Trapper said, hands holding my shoulders back against the seat.

"No, that's okay, I don't mind, really. I'll just stay here—"

"You have to _go_, Hawkeye." More firmly this time, and the hands on my shoulders kept me from going anywhere.

"He's in no condition to operate!"

"He'll be fine, Margaret. Just let him sleep on the way, and give him this when you get there. It'll perk him right up."

"What is it?"

"Family secret. Just make sure he drinks _all_ of it. Hawkeye." The helmet lifted, and I blinked at Trapper. "You just sleep, okay? Margaret's gonna take care of you. Okay?"

I smiled sleepily. "Mmm-kay." Rolled onto my side, pulled my legs up to my chest, let the helmet slip back down, and asleep in no time.

"Captain Pierce—Hawkeye…you have to drink this." Hands, tilting my head back; something against my lips—liquid fire pouring down my throat.

I yanked my mouth away, coughing and spluttering, suddenly very, very awake. Damn Trapper and his concoctions…but I braced myself and took the bottle from Margaret, downing the rest of the vile liquid. I thumped myself on the chest a few times, coughed, then climbed out of the jeep and said hoarsely, "All right, let's go."

Margaret spent the first few hours staring at me as if she expected me to tip over or fall asleep on my feet, but she of all people should have known that work was the best thing to keep a surgeon awake. It seemed like an endless flow of bodies streaming into the O.R., each kid worse than the last, though that couldn't be possible, not unless they were doing triage bass-ackwards—or unless they kept getting fresh wounded. And, damnit, that's what it was—wounded pouring in, all of them _here_. "Aren't there supposed to be four other MASH units in Korea?" I complained as I waited for corpsmen to bring me in another body.

"We're closest," one of the other surgeons said tersely.

"Well, I understand that, but isn't there this nifty thing called a helicopter? You know, flies, kinda like a bird? Can transport wounded to other places, where people are sitting around twiddling their thumbs?"

"This is not the time or the place for your joking, Captain Pierce," snapped the C.O., the ever-cheery Lt. Colonel Samuel Harbourn.

"Sorry, Colonel," I called jauntily, though I'd never been so not-sorry in my life. "I just don't understand why—"

"Pierce," Margaret whispered fiercely, glaring at me above her mask, "shut _up_. That's an order."

"Yes, mother," I mumbled, and threw myself into saving the next patient's life.

We worked the whole day and the whole night and a good part of the next day before Harbourn finally called, "All right, Pierce, I think we can handle the rest of them."

"What, and give you all the credit? No, when I start something, I don't stop until I finish it—if that's all right with you, of course, Colonel."

"Hawkeye," Margaret hissed, her eyes touchingly panicked.

"Pierce, you're walking a fine line—"

"I know I am, sir," I said, talking louder than the colonel so he could hear me. I thought that was very polite of me, considering the situation and how much I hated his guts. "And we can talk about that as much as you like later, but right now, I happen to be up to my elbows in this kid's intestines, and I have a habit of trying to save lives. So if you'd kindly let me do what I was sent here to do…?" He didn't answer, and I smirked beneath my mask. "Thank you, Colonel. Everyone else says you're an unreasonable old boor, but I never believed them for a second. Suction."

I didn't scrub out until the very last laceration had been seen to, if only to spite Harbourn. By that time, my exhaustion had started to catch up to me, and I dragged myself into the scrub room and shoved my head into the nearest sink. An unpleasant crash sounded behind me, but the water running over my head masked most of it. "Pierce!" Harbourn bellowed.

I reached one hand up to turn off the water, but kept my head in the sink so I wouldn't get their floor wet. Again, unnecessary politeness. "Yes, Colonel?" I called cheerily.

"I should have you court-martialed!" he boomed. I would have sworn his voice made the whole room shake, though it was probably only my lack of sleep that was making the floor and the walls dance.

"Please, do it," I said tiredly. "Anything, as long as it gets me away from this place."

"Get. Out. _Now._"

I really hated it when people didn't know how to properly punctuate their anger. One sounded much more threatening with exclamation marks, not periods. I lifted my still-dripping head and turned to face the very red-faced Harbourn, and looking him straight in the eye, I informed him, "You're a pompous ass." And then, feeling much better, I strolled outside.

Margaret was packing everything back into the jeep, and I leaped into the front seat, calling over my shoulder to her, "Come, Margaret, I think we've out-stayed our welcome." I could still hear Harbourn shouting inside.

"You're soaking wet!" she exclaimed.

"Am I? I hadn't noticed." I tapped my hands nervously on the steering wheel—Harbourn might decide to come out and continue our little fight, and while I enjoyed a good brawl just as much as the next chicken, he was twice my size, and any further argument would involve fists, not words. Verbal sparring was my forte, not physical. "Come _on_, Margaret."

She finally stepped up to the side of the jeep, her arms folded over her swelling bosom. "I'm driving," she announced.

I blinked at her. "I seem to be the one in the driver's seat."

"You're exhausted and in no condition to drive. _Move_."

"Margaret, I'm _fine_— Hey—!" She grabbed onto the wheel and planted her hip against mine, shoving until I was forced to slide over. Glaring at her, I crossed my arms over my chest and sank down into the seat. "Bully."

"Put your helmet on and go to sleep," she snapped as she started up the jeep.

"Is that an order?"

"Yes, Captain, it is."

"Oh, good. I was hoping it was." I tilted the helmet down over my face and thought of blue eyes.

* * *

Head pillowed in my arms on Potter's desk, I was only half-aware of his ranting and raging above me. Mostly, it just sounded like an angry buzz—a pissed-off bumblebee. After a while, I started softly humming the first few bars of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," which made a nice counterpoint to the buzzing. The buzzing stopped abruptly, so I stopped humming, and heard Trapper's voice, softly, "…exhausted, Colonel. He's not himself when he's this tired, you know that." Ah, Trapper—he'd always defend me, no matter what. It was us against them, through thick and thin. He was the brother I'd never had. 

"He's only had about six hours of sleep in the past four days." That was BJ, BJ of the wonderful blue eyes, who was quickly becoming my best friend—there were things I could share with BJ that Trapper would never understand, never appreciate. We were equals, BJ and I.

"Pierce." I opened my eyes to see Potter crouched at my side, his face on a level with mine. "You are hereby confined to quarters for the next three days. Once you wake up, we'll talk again."

And then I was being lifted, my arms around two sets of strong shoulders. "You guys're great," I informed Trapper and BJ as they half-dragged me outside. "I dunno what I'd do if you weren't here."

"You'd do a lot more crawling, for a start," BJ muttered.

I giggled and let my head flop against his shoulder; rubbing my cheek against the rough fabric of his shirt, I closed my eyes and started humming again. _Somewhere over the rainbow…Skies are blue… _Eyes_ are blue…_

"I'll get his boots off, you get the whites," Trapper directed as they dropped me down onto my bunk. BJ had the job of trying to keep me from tipping over while simultaneously working the bloody white scrub shirt over my head, and I ended up with my face wedged in the corner where his neck and shoulder met. BJ had such a unique smell… I giggled as Trapper's hand brushed against a sensitive spot on my foot. They finally laid me out flat on the bunk and tucked a blanket around me.

A hand patted my shoulder, BJ's voice murmuring, "Sleep tight, Hawk."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," Trapper added.

_And the dreams that you dare to dream…Really do come true…_

**TBC**


	8. Sleep

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Eight: Sleep**

I slept. And when I was done doing that, I slept a little more. And then, just to spice things up, I dozed off before sleeping. And after all that, I ate. No food-sniffing—just shovel everything in as fast as possible. Then tip back over for a little more sleep.

It was the morning of my second day of blessed house-arrest when I finally swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched, my spine popping. "Well, look who it is!" BJ called cheerfully from where he was reading a letter on his cot. "Welcome back to the world, Sleeping Beauty."

"Is the war over yet?" I groaned.

"Sorry—I tried, but they wouldn't take spam as bribery."

"Snobs." I shoved my hands back through my hair and yawned a jaw-popping yawn.

The door opened and I twisted around to see good old Ferret-face, standing in the doorway and looking as smug as a cat with a mouthful of feathers. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the indestructible Captain Pierce. I hear you're not so indestructible after all. What happened, Pierce?"

"Frank, I'm glad you're here. There's something I've wanted to tell you for a _long_ time."

"What's that, Pierce?" he asked with one of his typical grins.

"Go headbutt a bullet."

Frank huffed, snatched a few things off his bed, and stormed back outside.

"Violence doesn't suit you, you know," BJ said mildly.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "I get grumpy when I'm sleepy."

"I like you better as the other five dwarves."

"I'm a little dopey right now, if that helps." I yawned again, and heaved myself up to my feet, walking around to loosen up. "I miss anything exciting?"

"Corporal Adamson fell into the cesspool."

I gave a snort of laughter. "He obviously had a very shitty day."

"I _knew_ you would say that!" BJ groaned. "One of Radar's rabbits escaped, and he had the whole camp searching for it. Trapper was the one who finally found her—in the latrine. Ask him about his battle wound. Mail finally came in—Radar put yours…somewhere…"

"It'll find me," I said confidently. "Any wounded?"

"A few civilians who stumbled on a minefield. Luckily for them, their dog stumbled on it first, so they didn't sustain any serious damage. A kid who tripped over his buddy and fell into a foxhole. The kid's buddy, who fell in after him. Nothing much."

"How's, uh…Taylor, my kid Taylor. How is he?"

"Sent him out on the evac chopper yesterday. It was—"

I never found out what it was, because Potter chose that moment to enter stage right with a gruff, "Glad to see you back on your feet, Pierce, 'cause I'm gonna break 'em both."

"Ah, Colonel, can I interest you in some tenth-class gin?"

"No, Pierce, but you _can_ sit your butt down, _pronto_!"

There was a time for jokes and lighthearted tomfoolery, and there was a time for sitting one's butt down and behaving, and I was lucid enough to recognize that this particular time was among the latter. So I sat down on my bunk like a good little boy, my hands folded between my knees, and looked innocently up at Potter.

He sighed heavily. "Pierce, I've said it before, and I'll say it again—you're _damn_ lucky you're such a good surgeon, or the army would've had you hanged long ago. I talked to Sam Harbourn, convinced him you're not worth the trouble of pressing charges against, and he's promised not to have you drawn and quartered so long as you never set foot in his camp again."

"That's fine by me, Colonel." More than fine—it was just peachy. "I think I can abide by that."

Potter glared at me for a moment more; and then his lips curved slowly into a smile. "Did you really call him a pompous ass?" I nodded solemnly, and Potter chuckled. "You've got spunk, Hawkeye, I'll give you that. Just, in the future, try to _think_ before you go around offending the brass. Your actions reflect directly back on the camp and on _me_, and if they get too many bad reports on the conduct of officers here at the 4077, well…it wouldn't be the first time the army reassigned men. As long as you keep your nose clean for the next few months, this should all blow over. Now, what about—"

It was a day of interruptions—the sound of choppers overhead, and the call to arms: "Wounded in the compound and on the helipad. Both shifts to triage."

A collective sigh. "No rest for the weary," I mumbled, pushing my stiff bones up again.

"Well, they say the wicked don't rest, either," BJ pointed out. As if that was supposed to make me feel better.

Seven hours' work, and we could stumble back to the Swamp, Trapper with us this time. A little nightcap, and then we all hit the figurative hay (which would probably have been more comfortable than the bunks). What should have been a full night's sleep for me, however, was interrupted by a nudge on my shoulder and a whispered, "Move over."

I lifted my head, blinking blue-eyed dreams from my own eyes, and asked in a soft, incredulous half-mumble, half-whine, "Trap? What're you _doing_?"

"Whaddya _think_ I'm doin'?" he growled softly, lifting up my blanket and trying to crawl under it.

Suddenly very awake, I planted my hand on his chest to hold him at bay, and hissed, "_No_, Trapper. BJ—"

"Is sleeping like a baby. C'mon, Hawk…"

Was it just my imagination, or did Trapper lately—'lately' as in, ever since BJ had arrived—seem even randier than usual? No, it couldn't be my imagination—I had no imagination when I was this tired. I'd have to sit him down and have a long talk with him…later. At the present moment, however, he'd managed to get a hold on a rather sensitive part of anatomy that, lately, had been doing most of my thinking for me. With a brief and flippant _What the hell?_ to myself, I grabbed Trapper and pulled him onto the bunk. I was awake enough for some hip-grinding and a little hand-to-cock combat, and it was easier to let Trapper have his fun than to argue with him. Plus, the quicker I gave myself over to my lusty comrade, the quicker I could go back to sleep.

But there was a nagging little voice in the back of the place that used to think for me, a voice that whispered how stupid I was being, reminded me of the sort of risks I was taking: with the focus of my entire being shifting rapidly towards BJ, didn't it seem just a little foolish to be groping someone who was distinctly _not_ BJ? Yes, it seemed very foolish—but I was a man of instant gratification. I'd talk to Trapper tomorrow, end this…whatever…between us, and pursue other whatevers, with people who distinctly _were_ BJ.

It was, of course, even more foolish of me to think that it would work.

**TBC**


	9. Turning Point

A/N: I've been spoiling you all with a new chapter almost every day and, while I would _love_ to continue doing that, I fear it may not be so. I'm about to embark on a two-week-long vacation, which means my writing will slow down considerably. I'll still throw new chapters at you whenever I can (which should still be pretty regularly, since the story is practically writing itself; maybe two or three chapters a week, hopefully -crosses fingers-).

A warning for slightly naughty language and a reminder that I still own nothing.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Nine: Turning Point**

Unsurprisingly, the morning started out cold, and I bundled myself in my jacket and scarf before daring to trek outside. The damned rats had gotten to my mittens and wool hat and were now using them for unspeakable purposes, and since I didn't have the heart to break up their _very_ happy family, my ears and fingers were freezing by the time I got to the mess tent. But—clichéd as it may sound—I felt a just a little warmer as soon as I saw BJ.

Vaguely resembling an Eskimo, he was already seated at his cozy little breakfast nook, and I took my tray of mystery and went to join him. He glanced over as I sat down next to him, but quickly looked back down at his tray and said nothing. _Strange…_

He looked tired, his shoulders hunched and head hanging down, not to mention the unusual silence. I'd heard him moving around early this morning, which probably explained the bags beneath his eyes—another sleepless night in paradise. I nudged him with my elbow and said with as much false cheer as I could muster, "Happy Korean winter, Beej."

He said nothing, didn't respond in any way…just poked listlessly at his food._ Curiouser and curiouser…_

"You don't have to kill it, you know—it's been dead at least two decades." Still nothing. He must really be tired… "For a guy who did a whole lotta surgery yesterday, you were up awfully early this morning."

Finally—he speaks! "I woke up and I couldn't get back to sleep." He turned to give me a very pointed look. "There were a lot of _things_ I had to think about." He grabbed his tray and left, and I stared after him in confusion. If there'd been a point to that pointed look, I'd missed it. I abandoned my tray and chased after him.

"Beej, was it something I said?" I demanded, burrowing my hands into my pockets and thinking longingly of my hat. "Something I _didn't_ say? Do I offend?" I lifted my arms to get a whiff of myself. My layers of clothing blocked any lingering smell, if there even was any. "I just showered this morning—"

"Oh, I'll bet you did," he sneered with a bitter little chuckle. There was uncharacteristic anger in his voice, as well as biting sarcasm with a touch of cynicism, not to mention the sneer—all so very un-BJ. Those things were all more suited to…well, me. Not sweet, loveable BJ.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" I grabbed his arm, stopping him and dragging him around to face me. His jaw was set, his eyes dark with anger, and he looked as if he were about to burst into flame at any moment.

"I _know_, Hawkeye, all right?" he snapped, yanking his arm out of my hand. "I heard you last night."

Last night…dear God. I stared at him with wide eyes and hanging jaw; he glared back, and then turned to walk away again. I pulled myself together enough to grab him and pull him back behind the generator shed, near Radar's menagerie, where we were out of sight and earshot of everyone except the guinea pigs.

I'd never seen him look so…unfriendly. I'd never even imagined he—kind, always-smiling BJ—could wear the sort of expression he was wearing now. I took a risk and rested my hands on his arms; he didn't pull away, but the glare remained firmly in place. "Listen, Beej, I don't know what you—"

"What I think I heard, is that what you were going to say?" he interrupted—and yes, it was. "I _know_ what I heard, Pierce."

Panic setting in…heart thundering…palms sweaty…face breaking out… _What do I do, what do I do?_ "Okay…okay, fine—you heard what you heard. So what? You gonna turn us in to the MPs?"

"No." He pulled away, kicked viciously at a clump of dirt. It exploded into a million tiny pieces that pattered softly against the generator shed. He was probably imagining my head in its place.

My mind was wailing at me to do something, you stupid ass, and I wailed back at it that I couldn't think of anything to do because I _was_ stupid ass, so if it could just pull itself together for a moment and help me out, that would be lovely. My mind told me it hated me and that I deserved whatever I got, and went on a coffee break.

I shoved my hands back through my hair and held on to clumps of it. If the wall had been closer, I would have pounded my forehead against it. A useless little noise worked its way out of my throat, and BJ glanced over at me, his eyebrows rising slightly. I forced my cold fingers to loosen and my hands to drop to my side, ordered my lungs to breathe in the frigid air; and then I made the mistake of opening my mouth. "I don't—it's not—we're—it's just—we're just screwing around." A bark of laughter from BJ—_Nice choice of words, dumbass,_ I berated myself. Yet I insisted on digging myself into an even deeper hole: "We're…we're thousands of miles from home. We get lonely sometimes. It's nothing." I _needed_ to make him understand, but what could I say? I was feeling the overwhelming urge to curl into the fetal position and cry.

His eyes were blazing again when he turned back to face me, and his voice was almost terrifyingly calm and cool. "I don't care who you fuck, Hawkeye. I honestly don't. You can fuck every person in this camp for all I care. It doesn't matter to me."

Whoa, whoa, whoa, back it up a bit—where the _hell_ did that come from? And it almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than me… Softly, probably gaping like an idiot, I asked, "Then why are you so angry?"

I saw his hand curl into a fist and, coward that I am, I dropped to the ground before he even got the fist up; but I didn't need to worry, since he was aiming for the shed. He hit it dead-on, too—it'd go crying home to its mommy, if it had any brains. He started swearing as soon as his fist connected, puling it back against his chest and groaning and growling with pain. Wincing in sympathy, I jumped up and grabbed his hand from him, tearing off his glove and checking for breaks; mercifully, all his bones seemed to be intact. I glanced up at his face, saw that he was staring at me—not glaring anymore, just looking very confused.

My voice shook a little when I said, "C'mon, let's go get some ice for this."

He didn't move, just kept on staring at me. "I don't _want_ to be angry." His voice was soft but fierce, full of emotion—anger, of course, and confusion, but also sadness and fear and a dozen others I couldn't name. "It's _you_. _You_ make me feel like this." I was still holding onto his injured hand, but he pulled it away now, gently, and started to pace back and forth, hand opening and closing almost convulsively at his side. I stood and watched helplessly, feeling as confused as he looked. "Why, damnit?" he demanded suddenly, swinging to glare at me. His breath made a cloud of steam in the air, adding to his overall appearance of anger and reminding me of a bull about to charge.

I was too stupid to back down or even flinch—my brain hadn't come back from coffee yet. "Why what, Beej?" I sounded amazingly calm, considering I didn't feel it at all.

"_Why can't I hate you?"_

And then, thank God, the coffee break was over, and my mind kicked itself into gear. Based on past experience, it decided that for me to talk would be unwise, and chose instead for me to walk forward, put my hands on the sides of BJ's face, and kiss him.

And then I remembered that my mind was as stupid as I was.

I backpedaled fast, my face burning. If he didn't punch me, _I'd_ punch me—one of us had to.

But he just stood there, eyes wide, mouth open slightly. His fish impression was almost as good as mine.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ I shoved my hands into my pockets—they didn't deserve to see daylight, not after what they'd just done—and tried to make a dignified exit. A part of me—a big part of me—hoped he'd chase after me, even if it was only to beat me up; but I reached the doors to post-op without hearing my name called, without a touch on my arm. I paused outside the doors, looking back over my shoulder, and saw him hurrying in the opposite direction. _Nice job, Hawkeye,_ I thought sadly, closing my eyes for a moment. I wasn't above a little self-pity. But there were other things to do—more important things, supposedly, though I couldn't think of anything more important than my life crumbling down around my ears. Maybe if I threw myself into my work, the crash wouldn't be so loud.

**TBC**


	10. Down With Love

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Ten: Down With Love**

"Hawk, is there…something wrong?" Trapper asked tentatively.

"No, nothing. Why would you think something was wrong?"

"Because…because you're washing the linens."

"Margaret said she could use the help. I like to help. There's nothing wrong with helping people out once in a while, is there?"

He sighed patiently. "You wanna just tell me now, or am I gonna have to force it out of you? 'Cause you know you're gonna tell me."

"If there was something to tell, I'd tell you, Trap. But there's nothing to tell, so I _can't_ tell you, Trap."

"You're a lousy liar, Hawkeye."

"I happen to be louse-free, thank you."

"Hawk." Stern. Demanding. Knowing. Why did he know me so well, damnit?

I dropped a sopping-wet sheet into the tub of blessedly warm water, quite purposefully splashing Trapper. "Whoops," I said innocently.

He dripped quietly for a few moments while I fished the sheet back out and started to wring the water from it; then two fingers hooked themselves into my waistband and yanked me backwards, away from the tub. I yelped in surprise, then grunted as I was shoved back against the wall of the washroom. Reflexively, I brought my hands up; and as Trapper came in for the kill, he was momentarily halted by a very wet sheet pressed between our chests. Mildly surprised, Trapper blinked down at the sheet and the spreading pool of water on his jacket, then up at me. "Ya mind moving that?"

"Step away, John McIntyre, or so help me God, I will make you more wet than you've ever been in your entire life."

He smirked at me, then held his hands up in surrender, taking a few steps backwards and leaning his back end against the edge of the tub. "Okay—now tell me what's up."

"Besides my ire?" I threw the balled-up sheet at him; he caught it easily and dropped it back into the water.

"Yeah. Besides that."

I turned my back to him—I couldn't stand to look at that smug little grin anymore. "BJ knows."

"_Knows_? You mean…?"

"Yeah. I mean."

He sighed, a loud whooshing of air. "Well… He said something to you?"

"Yeah." Expectant silence, which I had no intent of filling.

"What'd he say?" Trap prompted.

"I don't know."

"You don't…whaddya mean, you don't know?"

"He said he knew, and he wouldn't turn us in, and he doesn't care who I fuck. It made next to absolutely no sense."

"So what'd _you_ say?"

I didn't answer right away. My lips still tingled where they'd pressed against his (or at least I told myself they did), and if I closed my eyes, I could still feel his body, warm, pressed against mine… "I kissed him."

Shocked silence; then, "You…_what_?!" I didn't dignify him with an answer. "Hawk, are—are you _nuts_?"

"Quite probably. But don't they say that if you think you're nuts, you're not really nuts? It's the ones who _don't_ think they're nuts that usually are nuts. That's probably why Klinger's never gotten out—he tries too hard to convince everyone he's nuts. If he—"

"Hawkeye." A hand on my shoulder, pulling me gently around to face him. "What'd he do?" Trap asked softly, soothingly—a parent comforting a distraught child.

"_He_ didn't do anything. _I_ left. We've been avoiding each other very well ever since."

"Hawk…" He ran a hand back through his hair. "I'm sorry?" An offer, a gesture of hope—not for me, but for himself.

"You are not."

"Yeah, I am—I'm sorry he hurt you." He ruffled my hair gently, smiling his parental smile. But I could see beyond that smile—he was happy. Happy that my "infatuation" with BJ seemed to be over. Happy that he'd have me all to himself again. "I can go rough him up a bit, if you want."

"No," I said firmly. "_You_ stay out of it. I'm a big boy—I can handle it myself."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

He turned away, started towards the door; I said very softly, "I think I do love him." Which effectively stopped Trapper from leaving.

His shoulders slumped, and his face was sad when he turned to face me. "Hawk, don't do that to yourself. Please. There's no hope in it. Sure, he might give you a good lay or two, but you hear how he talks about his wife. The only thing you'll ever be to him is a convenient substitute."

"Is that what I am to you?" I demanded.

"Yeah," he said simply. "You knew that from the beginning."

His simple, open-faced honesty had always irked me just a little, and right now it pissed the hell out of me. He was calm, cool, collected—everything I wasn't right now. I could hardly string one coherent thought together, much less provide insight into my own life—and here he was, trying to explain me to me. The worst part of it was, I knew he was right. But I _needed_ to be angry, needed to lash out, and Trapper was perfect for that—he'd always forgive me later. We were twisted like that. So I sneered, "Oh, well at least you're honest about it."

And of course, he got defensive: "Yeah, yeah I am—what else d'you want from me?"

"Nothing!" I shouted, throwing my arms into the air. I began pacing restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, a caged animal. "I don't want anything from you! I don't want anything from anyone! I just want people to leave me the hell _alone_!"

"Fine. That's what you want?" The door slammed, and the whole building shook. Surprised, I looked over—he was gone. He'd left. Trapper didn't leave. Trapper let me yell at him and sometimes yelled back, and then he grabbed me, kissed me, and asked if I was all better. Trapper didn't leave.

And yet, I was alone in the room.

I shoved the heels of my hands against my eyes and leaned back against the nearest wall, sliding down slowly until I sat on the damp floor. Wonderful. Just wonderful. In one day, I'd managed to alienate my two best friends—probably forever, the way my life was going.

And it wasn't even noon yet.

I needed a drink.

* * *

Rosie's Bar was mostly empty when I stalked inside—a few GIs at one table, and a single person at the bar. That single person was, of all people, Margaret Houlihan, looking like she felt as bad as I did. I sat down next to her and ordered a scotch, and asked her glumly, "What's got _you_ down?"

She looked up at my sharply, her face guarded. Her eyes were red and puffy, and slightly bloodshot—looked like she'd been crying as much as she'd been drinking. "Nothing," she snapped.

I nodded and knocked back the scotch, which made me feel a little better—but it was going to take a lot more than that to make me forget, which was what I'd come to do. "Me too." After another shot, I turned to look at Margaret again, propping my head up on my fist. "Margaret, do you like me?" She looked affronted, so I quickly explained, "As a person, do you like me as a _person_? My, you know…personality."

A thoughtful look crossed her face, and she was silent for a little while. "Mostly…yes. You're a good man, with a good heart, just making the best of this terrible place."

"Thank you," I said, patting her arm and smiling faintly.

"But you're arrogant. Arrogant and self-centered—when it comes down to it, you only care about Benjamin Franklin Pierce." I pulled my hand back and used it to down another scotch, mumbling something unintelligible even to myself. Leave it to Margaret to destroy my brief sparkle of happy. "And your blatant disrespect is _infuriating_! Just once in a while, it'd be nice to hear a 'yes, ma'am,' or get a salute, or even to see you in uniform!"

"Okay, Margaret, thank you."

"And your sanctimonious pre—!"

"Margaret!"

Her mouth snapped shut, and her cheeks reddened slightly, but she shrugged and pointed out, "You asked." She then reached out to put her hand on my arm. "I do think you're a good man, Hawkeye. You're sensitive when you want to be—you just don't let people see that often enough. The way I see it, is you've built up so many defenses against this place and what goes on here, that no one can every really know you. We all get a glimpse every once in a while of the man you really are, and the man you could be…but only ever a glimpse."

I sighed, and put my hand over hers. It seemed everyone but me had some great insight into me. "I appreciate the honesty. You're not such a bad egg yourself, you know."

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to see if people think I'd make a better president than Truman."

"See—there it is! Whenever things get too serious, you hide behind a joke!"

I spread my hands helplessly. "That's just the way I am! I hate tension, and I happen to be good at relieving it. Hey, let me buy you a drink…"

One drink led to another, and another led to more, and more led to intense drunkenness, which led to a new openness between the two of us. If we'd been sober, I might almost have called it friendship.

"Can you keep a shecret, Hawkeye?" she slurred at one point.

"Sure, I'm good at that. Just don't ask me to keep a friend." Down with another scotch, since I could still feel my bitterness. I wanted to not feel anything.

"You know Frank—Frank Burns?"

I paused, trying to decide if it was worth it to come up with a witty response. No, it'd just be lost on the queen of Souse Korea. I went with a simple, "Yeah, I've seen him around a few times."

"Well," she said, waving a finger in my face, "there's some—something you don' know about him an' me." She grabbed my collar, yanking my ear down to her mouth to stage whisper, "We're seeing each other." She leaned back, nodding solemnly.

I snickered into my scotch, and she joined me in a brief bout of pointless laughter. "Well, I suppose that'd drive me to drinking, too."

She gave a roar of laughter, slapping my arm none too gently and sloshing most of my scotch, which had been on its way to join the others, onto the bar. Then she serioused up—"sobered up" didn't quite seem appropriate—and slurred, "But tha's not it. We _were_ she—seeing each other…until today…" Her lower lip started to quiver, and then a wailing sob flew out of her mouth like a startled bird. She threw herself against me and I put my arm around her shoulders, letting her sob on mine. When she finally pulled herself back together, she lifted her bourbon and proclaimed, "Men stink!"

And after today, I was more than willing to lift my own glass with a heartfelt, "Hear, hear!" and a shouted, "Down with love!" One of us ordered another round, and we drank to more proclamations of the same vein.

We somehow ended up at a corner table, alternately laughing and crying without any apparent reason for either, and talking about a number of things I would probably regret later. At one point, I began singing, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," my comfort song, and Margaret willingly joined in. Over and over again we sang that song, sometimes mournful, other times laughing so hard we could only wheeze out every fourth word. Her voice eventually stopped, though; and at about the same time I realized I wason the floor, slouched against the wall, with a beer in each hand. I told myself I should stop singing and get up, and I promised myself that I would as soon as I finished the song. Unfortunately, the words jumbled together in my head and, ultimately, I ended up selecting a line at random in a never-ending version of the song. I'd been at it for a while when I finally passed out.

**TBC**


	11. War

Note: This chapter is from BJ's POV.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Eleven: War**

As far as I could tell, he'd disappeared into cold, thin air. No one had seen him since "this morning," which was spectacularly unhelpful, since _I'd_ seen him this morning. I think I asked everyone in camp at least twice—except for one person specifically—but he'd just…vanished. With no other option left, I finally bit the bullet and went in search of Trapper—if anyone knew where Hawkeye was, it'd be Trapper.

He was in post-op, talking to one of the kids he'd operated on yesterday. I stood at the foot of the bed, waiting until Trapper had finished talking; he finally turned around and pretended to be surprised to see me there.

"Have you seen Hawkeye?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

_Damn._ I'd been half-hoping he wouldn't know, because _now_ I'd have to beg the answer from him. "I need to talk to him."

Trapper turned back to his kid, patted his arm and said, "You rest now, kiddo. I'll be back to check on you in an hour or so." He got up and motioned for me to follow him, leading me behind the white curtain so we'd have some amount of privacy from the patients and nurses. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against the laundry bin, and glared steadily at me. I crossed my own arms and glared right back. "It seems to me," he finally said softly, "that you've already done enough damage as it is."

"Just tell me where he is, Trapper. The rest is between me and him."

"No, it's not. _This_ is between you and me. He's my best friend, and damned if I'm gonna let him screw up his whole life over _you_. You just keep your distance from him, and everything'll be a-okay. You got that, kiddo?"

He was a cocky son-of-a-bitch, no two ways about it. So sure of himself that he'd never even pause to think he might be wrong. I'd tried more than once to make peace with him, because he seemed like a good enough guy; but he'd kept his distance from me, and I was starting to think I knew why.

…_the rustle of clothing and sheets…the soft, wet sound of lips connecting…a quiet moan…_

The thought of him, with Hawkeye—not that he was _with_ Hawkeye, but that _he_ was with Hawkeye—

…_his hands, warm on my face, holding, caressing gently…lips against mine, moving slowly, surely…stubble on cheeks and chin scraping roughly against my own face…_

—made me want nothing more than to wipe that smug look off Trapper's face. "I'll find him on my own," I growled, forcing my wounded hand to unclench from its fist.

"If he wanted you to find him, you would've by now. You don't know the first thing about him, so take it from someone who does—he doesn't need you fucking up his life, so just keep away from him."

Peg had always told me that my anger had the longest fuse in the world, and normally, I would have agreed with her. Maybe it was being so far from home, in a place that was so terrifyingly different (and generally terrifying all around), but my fuse felt about a centimeter long now, and Trapper was holding a flame out to it. "What gives you the right—?"

Apparently, his fuse was even shorter than mine: he grabbed two fistfuls of my shirt and shoved me up against the wall, his face inches from mine and radiating anger. "Stay away from him, Hunnicutt. You lay one finger on him, and I'll break your neck." He let go of me, rubbing his palms on his pants legs as if he'd just touched something offensive; and then he made the mistake of turning his back on me.

I'd never considered myself a fighting man. I preferred calm, levelheaded debate. But it was more than obvious that that particular tactic wasn't going to work with Trapper, so I resorted to Plan B: I threw myself at his back, tackled him to the ground, and got in two good punches before my hand reminded me how much pain it was in. Swearing and clutching my hand—_This seems a little familiar_—I started to get to my feet, only to find myself dragged back down. A fist connected squarely with my nose, and then with my left cheek, before the weight of Trapper's body was dragged off me. Two other corpsmen grabbed and held me—not that I was about to do anything, with my hand throbbing, my nose gushing blood, and my eyes watering so fiercely I could hardly see.

"What in the name of Nancy's navel is going on?!" Potter, of course, his voice booming over the slightly panicked cacophony in the post-op ward. A brooding silence, where Nurse Kellye could be heard softly explaining to the colonel. I blinked my eyes to try to clear my sight, but they were still watering determinedly—almost as determinedly as my nose was bleeding. "Hunnicutt! McIntyre! My office! _March_!"

I pulled away from the corpsmen and, holding one sleeve against my nose to try to stop the flow of blood and using the other to wipe my eyes, stomped into Potter's office; Potter followed after me, most likely to prevent Trapper from attacking me from behind; Trapper brought up the rear. Inside the office, Potter pointed a finger at me, blustered, "You—that corner!" Then the finger swiveled to Trapper: "You—_that_ corner!"

We went to our respective corners and glared across the room at each other. Trapper's lip was split, and it looked like he'd probably bitten his tongue, too, judging by the blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. His left eye was already darkening. I felt a moment's brief satisfaction before Potter, standing between us with hands on hips, bellowed, "What in Christ's name _was_ that?" He didn't give us a chance to answer—not that we would have anyway. "You two are _officers_ of the United States _Army_, for Pete's sake! And beyond that, you're both _decent men_!" His glare shifted between us; I don't think I'd ever seen him so angry. "Talk," he barked. "Explain, if you can—which I _doubt_!"

Trapper and I continued to glare and bleed silently.

Potter's voice was calmer when he spoke next, more controlled. "Fine—that's the way you boys wanna play this?" He walked and sat behind his desk, folding his hands neatly and looking back and forth between us. "I can wait all day, if I have to—I can wait the whole damn war!"

I sat on the edge of the small table in my corner; Trapper leaned against the wall; and we waited. Nurses Grant and Kellye came in to see to our wounds; there was little more I could do with my nose than pinch it and wait for the bleeding to stop, since it wasn't broken; Grant insisted on checking my hand for damage—

…_his fingers running over my palm, prodding tenderly, his hands gentle…_

I pulled my hand away from her, mumbled nasally, "I'b fine."

"If you say so, doctor," she sighed, and gathered up her first-aid things. She returned briefly with two bags of ice, one for my hand, and one for Trapper's.

And then we waited again.

Abruptly, Potter bellowed, "Radar!" but the little clerk was already coming through the door. "Go find Captain Pierce—I'm sure the Chief Surgeon would like to be involved in disciplining these two."

"Uh, sir," Radar said hesitantly, "I'd like to do that, sir, but I kinda can't, on account of no one really knowing where Captain Pierce is, sir."

"What?" Potter barked, his face reddening and his eyes blazing.

Radar fidgeted nervously. "Well no one's seen him hardly at all today, sir, 'cept for this morning."

Growling low in his throat, Potter said to Trapper and I, "All right—one of you must know where he is. Spill. That's an _order_!"

"The last I saw him," I said, "was by the generator shed. Early—before breakfast."

"He was in the laundry room at about 1100 hours," Trapper said. "Permission to go look for him, sir?"

"_Denied_! Neither of you are going _anywhere_ until you explain to me just _why_ you wanted to beat each other to a pulp!"

Trapper and I glanced at each other—glares gone, a silent understanding passing between us. His eyes not leaving mine, he told Potter with a (fake) note of grudging surrender in his voice, "He stole my pen."

"He _accused_ me of stealing his pen," I argued.

Potter was gaping. "And _that's_ why you tried to rip each other's heads off?"

"Yessir," Trapper and I lied together.

"Christ's sake…"

"Permission to leave now, sir?" Trapper asked.

Potter's glare softened ever so slightly. "I can see you're worried about Pierce… Get out, both of you. But don't think this is over!"

We both dashed for the door; he beat me to it by a second, but he kept on going, racing outside. I grabbed Radar by the shoulders and demanded, "Where have you looked for him?"

His eyes were panicky. "Everywhere, sir! I even checked in the nurses' shower, an' he wasn't there, neither!"

"Everywhere on camp?" I prodded.

"Yessir, that's what I said, sir." He was looking slightly confused.

"What about Rosie's?"

He blinked, his mouth forming a small O. "No, sir, I don't think—"

I was already out the door and racing away from camp, ignoring the cold that nearly sucked all the air from my lungs, towards the cheery glow of Rosie's Bar. With the sun down, the place was crowded, and I elbowed my way through the horde of people, searching for black hair, a flash of familiar features… There! _Oh, God…_ He was slumped against the wall, out cold; and there was Margaret, of all people, sprawled next to him. I searched the crowd for another familiar face, apprehended Klinger to carry Margaret back to camp while I threw Hawkeye's arm around my shoulders and dragged him up off the ground. A crowd met us just inside the compound, the nurses taking Margaret from Klinger, everyone else crowding around me to make sure Hawkeye was all right. Trapper, appearing through the throng, opened the door to the Swamp, and we worked together silently to get Hawkeye arranged in his cot. We both turned off all the lights, went to our own bunks; and into the darkness, I said softly, "I guess I know him better than you thought." The gauntlet was thrown down.

"We'll see about that." And the gauntlet was picked up.

The war had begun.

I fell asleep thinking of soft, warm lips on mine, and perfect blue eyes.

**TBC**


	12. Bright Sunshiny Day

Note: Back to Hawkeye's POV.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twelve: Bright Sunshiny Day**

Head…throbbing. Carefully, I cracked one eyelid open—_gah! light!_—then quickly closed it with a groan. Which was stupid, since the sound echoed painfully through my head. Burying my tender face against my pillow, I groped around in the debris surrounding my bed until I found what I was looking for: a pair of sunglasses. I shoved them onto my face, and tentatively opened my eyes—better, but still ouch. My whole body was one big ouch. A MacArthur of an ouch, if you will.

Carefully, I sat up, wincing and whimpering. Based on the lack of response from my bunkies, I deduced that I was alone in the Swamp. That was probably for the better, since I looked foolish trying to find and put on warm, clean clothes while moving as little as possible. I finally stumbled out into the compound, squinting through the sunglasses and wincing at every noise. A familiar figure was dragging itself towards me, and I reached out to grab its arm. "Margaret—" Wince, whimper, etc.

She looked as bad as I felt, and she probably felt as bad as I looked. "What?" she groaned.

"Last night—I think I said some things to you I don't think I meant to say to you, and I—"

She reached up to press her gloved fingers gently against my lips, and smiled slightly. "I can't seem to remember a thing we talked about last night," she said innocently.

I smiled back at her, and leaned into to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Margaret." I'd never thought I'd say those words with complete sincerity, but it had occurred to me while trying to pull my pants on this morning that I'd said enough to her last night that she'd have little trouble throwing blue discharge papers at me.

"But if you ever want to talk again," she offered carefully, "my doors are always open. I could use a new drinking buddy."

The mention of booze made me groan, but I promised to take her up on that offer before I wandered away. I felt…almost happy, which was strange, especially since it was so early in the morning. I think I might have even been smiling.

"Well, if it isn't Bingey, the eighth dwarf. Did I just see you kiss Margaret Houlihan?"

I simultaneously choked on my own spit and stumbled over my feet, but a hand grabbed my arm to steady me. "BJ—!"

"That's what they call me," he said with a smile. His hand remained around my elbow even after I'd found what little balance I had.

I gaped at him—at the bruise spreading across his left cheek, as well as the bruising around his nose; and I stared because he was _here_, talking to me…smiling at me…even after what I'd done… "What—what happened to you?"

He shrugged the question off. "It's nothing. I ran into a door or something. It looks a lot worse than it is." His face was open, honest, and vaguely worried when he said softly, "We need to talk."

"Yeah…" I agreed breathlessly. Talk. That could be good or bad. I hoped it was good. It was probably bad.

"I, uh, hear the supply tent's a good place to look for privacy."

_Oh, God…_ "Yeah…" That was suddenly the only word my mouth knew, and my panicked mind wasn't about it give it any help. His hand still around my elbow, BJ directed me into the supply tent. It was lit by a single flickering bulb so, my hands shaking, I pulled off the sunglasses and set them on the nearest solid surface and went back to staring at BJ in shock. He stood there in front of me, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking suddenly nervous, which didn't at all help _my_ nervousness—

And then everything—uncertainty, hope, fear, cold, hangover—was wiped clear of my mind as he leaned down to brush his lips against mine.

I melted.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, a thumb on my jaw tilting my head back slightly to a better angle so that he—we—could deepen the kiss. It was the sort of kiss every person dreams of—tender, caring, gently passionate, knowing and understanding, _loving_—the sort of kiss that makes time stop.

He pulled away slowly, leaving me with closed eyes, open mouth, and jelly legs. His thumb ran lightly along the line of my jaw and gently closed my mouth for me; I opened my eyes to see his face still very close to mine, smiling, _glowing_. "Sorry," he murmured, "but I wasn't sure if you'd do that again or not."

_Now I know why women always faint in the movies,_ I thought weakly. I could also say, now, with complete confidence and truth that Cloud Nine was the best place in the world to be.

"I think it's time for that conversation I mentioned," BJ murmured, his hand sliding down my arm, fingers lacing through mine. He pulled me deeper into the tent, to the cot where I'd brought so many nurses, where I'd brought Trapper… We sat down together, close, my right shoulder, hip, and leg pressed against the corresponding parts of his left side. He was still holding onto my hand, our joined fingers resting on top of his knee, his thumb running lightly over my knuckles. I was still somewhere over the rainbow.

"So," he finally said, looking up from our hands to meet my eyes. "You and Trapper."

I gave my brain a kick and said quickly, "We're—he's like my brother. That's all."

Amazingly, BJ nodded understandingly. "That's what I guessed."

"You…_what_?"

"I did a lot of thinking yesterday, about a lot of things, and came to a number of conclusions. That was one of them."

"Very scientific," I muttered.

"Thank you. Next—you and _me_."

I forced myself to meet his eyes and ask, "_Is_ there a you and me?"

He frowned ever so slightly, but his eyes were sparkling. "Maybe I wasn't clear enough before." Another kiss, this one a little less innocent than the last.

My thoughts were spinning happily, but I tried to get them to cooperate. This whole thing was so…shocking—yesterday, he'd been ready to knock my block off, and now here he was with his tongue halfway down my throat. To say the least, I was confused.

Reluctantly, I pulled back. He frowned in slight confusion, and I stammered, "BJ…what changed? Yesterday…and now _this_…"

"Like I said, I did a lot of thinking. I figured out why I was so angry—it wasn't because you were _with_ Trapper, but because you were with _Trapper_. It's all about the emphasis."

"You were…jealous?"

"If that's what you want to call it, yes."

It was a decidedly strange feeling that I was feeling: a mix of euphoria that my wildest dreams seemed to be coming true, doubt that my wildest dreams were actually coming true, and certainty that my wildest dreams couldn't _possibly_ be coming true. There had to be a catch, somewhere… "Beej," I said softly, my eyes fixed on my boots, "I—I'm not looking for…just sex."

"Who said I was?"

Brief pause of all bodily functions for shock, and I ended up gaping at him again. "And…you're married!"

He pretended to look stunned. "I am?" I didn't laugh, and he sighed with a sheepish smile. I found myself thinking how adorable that looked, and quickly told myself to put those thoughts on hold until we'd worked all this out. "Okay, I'm married—so what? Trapper's married."

"It's different with him. I don't—" I bit off the last two words—_love Trapper_—before I made a complete ass of myself, and went back to the staring contest with my feet. The booted bastards were winning. Lamely, I tried to fix my near-stupidity with, "You've always said you'd be faithful to her."

"Actually, I've always said I wouldn't lay my hands on another woman." He was doing what I always did, trying to lighten the tension and the mood, probably trying to make me smile; but I wasn't exactly in the smiling mood. He put his hand on the back of my neck, shook me gently, and chided, "You think too much. We _both_ think too much. What say we give up on thinking for a little while?"

I am no saint. I am a mortal man in the prime of life, far from immune to temptation; and here was this gorgeous, perfect man offering himself to me, practically _begging_ me to just give in to temptation…and who was I to refuse him? It was BJ, my Beej—an honest, caring man, one of the two best friends I'd ever had; I trusted him completely, and I…cared about him.

I think too much. Just stop thinking. Easy. Persuade the mind to go on another of those coffee breaks (though it wasn't too keen on leaving, now that things had started to get interesting), and then lean forward, lips to lips, hands running over face, shoulders, chest, back; his lips sliding down, across my cheek, tilt my head back so he can get to my neck, close my eyes, a soft moan, because this felt so right… 

His tongue ran over my Adam's apple, and I gasped in surprise, my eyes flying open, thoughts flooding suddenly into my head. _Can't now…want more than just sex…have things to do…_ "Beej," I gasped, "I—I have post-op. I can't…"

His lips stopped moving, and he rested his forehead against my shoulder with a small sigh. "You just _had_ to think, didn't you?" His voice was meant to sound angry, annoyed, but all I heard was fond amusement. He pulled back with an exaggerated sigh, and informed me, "You need to learn how to clear your mind." He placed his fingertips at my temples and began moving them in a slow, circular motion. My eyes drifted shut…_so relaxing…_

His breath brushed lightly across my lips, and my eyes flew back open. Less than an inch separated our faces. I scrambled backwards, and ended up falling off the cot and onto the very hard and uncomfortable ground. I dragged myself up and glared mildly at him from a safe distance.

BJ was trying not to laugh at me, his face creased as he fought to not smile, his eyes sparkling with pure joy. "I'm a little disappointed," he finally said, his voice carefully controlled. "I was lead to believe you were something of a Don Juan."

"Well, you're not exactly one of Don's usual conquests, are you?" I snapped. I was angry with myself more than him—angry because he had this insane sort of power over me, and angry because I _wanted_ him so badly. "You can be very cruel when you want to be."

He grinned rakishly. "You have _no_ idea. Didn't you mention something about post-op?"

I glared again. "I'm not exactly _fit_ to go out in public at the present moment, thanks to you."

A broad grin spread across his face, but he asked with complete innocence, "What's wrong, Hawkeye? Troubles?" He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, and stared at me—which didn't exactly help my problem. I turned my back to him, and thought of Granny Pierce, of the "food" in the mess tent, of this whole place, of everything except BJ and how good, how _right_, he felt…

"Jerk," I said cheerfully, and stuck my tongue out at him before hurrying out of the tent. I was probably grinning from ear to ear, humming softly to myself as I strolled through the compound. Life seemed to be taking a turn for the better.

My good mood was dampened slightly when I remembered that I still had to talk to Trapper. He wouldn't be very pleased if/when he found out about this latest development.

**TBC**


	13. All Is Fair

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Thirteen: All Is Fair…**

"You're an idiot," Trapper informed me.

"I know," I agreed patiently.

"You're throwing away your whole life."

"Probably."

"You'll never be happy."

"True."

"Nothing will ever come of it."

"Right."

"You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"I want to make sure I get my point across."

We'd slipped into the empty O.R. for a bit of privacy—post-op was overflowing with nurses, and what I'd come to tell him wasn't exactly the sort of thing I wanted to be overheard. I'd also been a little uncertain of how Trapper would take the news—he'd been known to react violently, BJ's bruises case in point—and if he was going to punch me or molest me, both would be better done in private. So far, I'd been pleasantly surprised by his calmness, though he was as obstinate as ever.

"I told you," I said with a pointed glare towards his black eye and split lip, "I'm a _grown man_, and I will handle this _by myself_."

"You're not a grown man," he snorted. "You're short and scrawny, and I've never in my life seen a man that looks like you do."

"Fine, then I'm an adolescent cat—I'll still handle it by myself."

"Hawkeye, you're incapable of handling _anything_ by yourself. We both know that. You need my help, whether you like it or not."

"I do _not_ need your help!" I shouted. I then reminded myself that I was trying to keep this private, and lowered my voice to continue, "I know what I'm doing. It's my life, and I'll lead it how I want. _This_ happens to be one of the ways in which I want to lead it. You can either let me do that, or we can keep arguing and destroy whatever's left between us."

He was silent for a little while, staring at me in surprise. "You're serious?"

"Yeah, I am. You have to choose. Let me live my life, and you can live it as my friend; or I _still_ live my life, but without you."

"Has anyone told you how much of a bastard you are?"

"Not recently, no."

"Then it's about damn time. You're a bastard."

"Feel better?"

"A little. Kiss me and make it more better?"

"No," I said firmly, but I softened the words with a small smile. There could be no more of that, not anymore, not now that I had BJ… I stuck out my hand and asked hopefully, "Still friends?"

He looked down at my hand, and then ignored it to pull my into a bone-crushing hug. "You mean a lot to me, Hawkeye," he said softly. "I don't want to see you get hurt."

"_You're_ hurting me!" I wheezed, and he loosened his hold. "I really do appreciate that, Trap, and you mean a lot to me, too—but that's just why you have to _stay out of this_! If you don't, I'll have to make you, and that would hurt more than anything BJ could ever do to me."

He pulled back to look me in the eye, his hands resting heavily on my shoulders. "I still think it's only because he's the puppy," he muttered. "It's puppy-love."

"It's not," I said patiently. "I'm too old for puppy love. I'm a lecherous old fox taking advantage of big blue puppy-eyes."

"I'm not gonna let this go. I don't want to see you hurt."

I sighed—it wasn't worth arguing with him. It was easier to just nod and smile, and agree that everything was okay between us, because if we _said_ that everything was okay, than it must be true.

* * *

_(AN: Just for kicks, we skip back to BJ's POV.)_

I was lying on my bunk and flipping idly through a magazine, watching as Frank got all gussied up. "Got a hot date tonight, Frank?" I asked, not really caring but bored enough to ask.

He glanced over at me, and then grinned through his mask of shaving cream. "Well…yes, I do," he said proudly. For some reason, he seemed to believe I liked him more than Hawkeye or Trapper, and was almost pathetically eager to confide in me. "With a nurse. And not just any nurse…" He chuckled to himself, and I turned another page in the magazine. "The _Chief_ Nurse."

I feigned as much shock as I could manage. "_Margaret Houlihan_?" I exclaimed.

"That's right," he said gleefully, flicking the razor across his cheek.

"But Frank, I thought you two had broken up!"

He turned to glare at me suddenly. "For your information, Nosy Nellie, we were never together. And we have _not_ broken up!"

"I guess I've just been listening to too many rumors, then," I said wistfully, casting my magazine aside and stretching out on my cot, tucking my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling.

"What rumors?" he asked suspiciously.

"They were just rumors, Frank. They're obviously not true. I'd never believe _you_ were capable of something like _that_."

"Something like what?" He was starting to sound nervous now, and I smiled to myself.

"I'm sure it's not true, Frank."

He crouched down next to my bed, looking very worried. "What is it? What is it?"

I rubbed my nose in order to hide my smirk, and gave him an innocent look. "Really, Frank, I wouldn't want to go propagating those sorts of cruel, unfair rumors. You know what they say, 'A slip of the lip can sink a ship'."

He seemed slightly taken aback at my throwing one of his own quotes back in his face, and he huffed angrily before returning to his shaving. With a small smile, I closed my eyes and listened to him finish his preparations. The Swamp seemed unusually quiet once he'd left; it was rare that I'd ever been alone in here before. It was almost lonely—I'd grown so used to the constant presence of other human beings over the past two months here, that to be alone was a little disconcerting. I'd used to take at least a half-hour every day to barricade myself in my office (back in the States, of course), just to be alone with my thoughts; now I was almost afraid of that happening, afraid of what kinds of thoughts would present themselves…

I heard the door open, but I kept my eyes closed; the steps were too heavy to be Frank's, and the person was too quiet to be Hawkeye, which left Trapper. My belief was confirmed when he started rummaging around near his bunk, and when he finally said, "I know you're not asleep, you know."

"Good for you," I muttered, keeping my eyes closed. He snorted, and kept on looking for whatever it was he was looking for. I cracked an eye open, saw him down on all fours, pushing his hands through the piles of detritus surrounding his cot. "I suppose Hawkeye's talked to you already?" I asked with mild curiosity and what was, admittedly, a smug air.

He pushed himself up, and came to hover menacingly at the side of my bunk. I stared calmly back at him while he said, "Yeah, he did. And I want to make sure you know that if you ever hurt him, in any way, I will personally hunt you down."

"I seem to remember him wanting you to keep your nose out of his business."

He glared down at me, his hands curling into fists. I thought for a moment he was going to throw himself at me; but then he said, softly, "I promised him I wouldn't attack you."

"And are you a man of your word, John McIntyre?"

"Yeah, yeah I am."

"What about your wife? Didn't you make some sort of promise to her to be faithful?"

His eyebrows shot up, and a smirk curled his lips. "_Me_? What about you? That ring on your finger says you made the same kind of promise."

I ground my teeth together, pushed myself up off the cot. "_That's_ none of your business."

His smirk widened. "Hit a soft spot, did I? What's wrong, _Beej_?" he purred, using the name Hawkeye always used, turning the endearment into a taunt. "Feeling a little guilt?"

I stormed out of the Swamp before he could say any more—or before I was overpowered by the urge to punch his face in (again). _It's not guilt,_ I told myself fiercely as I stomped out into the compound. _I don't feel guilty—I have nothing to feel guilty about! I haven't betrayed Peg…_

…_Yet._

_I still love her. I do. I just…it's like Hawkeye said, we're thousands of miles from home, and we get lonely sometimes. He's…so different, so unique, more so than anyone else I've ever met. What person could know Hawkeye and not be attracted to him? We…connect. I need human connection here, in this Hell, I need it to keep me sane, just like Hawkeye needs his insanity to stay sane. We all need our own little things to get through this, and I…I need him. If I have to explain it to Peg, she'll understand. I hope she will. She has to._

**TBC**


	14. Competition

Note: Hawkeye POV again.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Fourteen: Competition**

I was huddled under as many layers of cloth as I'd been able to find: clothing, blankets, pillows, and a few balls of yarn I'd piled over my feet. I'd retrieved my hat and mittens from the corner—screw the rats, I wasn't about to freeze my ears and fingers off so they could repopulate the species—but even with all that, I was still shivering so hard I swear I could hear my brain rattling around inside my head. "It's _freezing_!" I complained to the world at large.

"I'll put some more paper in the stove," BJ said instantly.

I heard Trapper's cot creak as he called, "Here, Hawk, you can have my blanket, I've got an extra—"

"No, wait, I just got this nice, _warm_ knitted blanket from home, much better than a ratty old army-issue blanket."

"Did your _wife _make it, _BJ_?" Trapper always seemed to sneer BJ's name lately.

"Will you guys _shut up_!" Frank shouted. "_Some_ people are trying to sleep!"

I stuck my head out of my cocoon and looked from Trapper to BJ, glaring at each other across their side of the Swamp. "Much as I hate to agree with Frank—_cool_ it, you two! We don't need _that_ kind of heat in here!" They both glanced at me, and then went back to glaring at each other. I sighed, and pulled my head back inside my shell. They'd been bickering almost constantly, and that was almost more annoying than the cold.

A freezing draft ruffled my blankets, exposing me to the cold, and everyone in the tent shouted angrily as the door slammed shut. "Sorry, sirs!" Radar said nervously. He sounded like he might have developed a twitch. "But Cap'n Pierce, Major Houlihan says you gotta come to post-op, there's some trouble with that Smith kid!"

I threw off my blankets and stumbled as fast as I could to the door; BJ and Trapper were there beside me as I streaked off into the cold towards post-op. Smith—Jesse Smith, 24 years old, a carpenter from Nebraska, married with two sons, came in with a stomach wound, peppered with shrapnel—should have been doing fine. BJ and I had operated on him together, found all the shrapnel, stitched everything up…but there was blood in his urine. "Internal bleeding?" BJ suggested grimly.

"I thought we got everything! We—we spent hours on him! He should be fine!"

"He's not," BJ pointed out. "You think we should open him back up?"

I sighed heavily, and rubbed the bridge of my nose because my hat prevented me from pushing my hands through my hair. "I think we have to. Margaret, get him ready for O.R. Beej, you gonna scrub in with me?"

"Of course. Gotta see the kid through."

Trapper went back to the Swamp without a word.

We'd missed a tiny piece of shrapnel that'd done a real job on Smith's intestines after we'd closed him up. It was with a feeling of accomplishment that we trooped out of the O.R. hours later, still wearing our bloody whites just because it was another layer of clothing.

BJ gave me a furtive glance, and then tugged on my sleeve. "Come on."

"Come on where?" I demanded sleepily. "Bed's _that_ way."

"Come on," he persisted, smiling that little smile of his that I just couldn't refuse. So I followed him to, not so surprisingly, the supply tent.

I let him pull me inside before I said softly, "Beej…it's late, and—"

"I just want to talk."

"Talk?" I repeated blankly. You didn't come to the supply tent to _talk_, that's what the mess tent was for; the supply tent was for…not talking.

"Yeah. I…" His face got a little red. "I want to get to know the _real_ Benjamin Franklin Pierce."

I wrinkled my nose at him. "No one calls me that and lives, fella." But I went with him to the cot, wedged between two stacks of crates, and we sat at either end of the cot, facing each other, and just…talked. About nothing and everything. The only things that were taboo were his wife and daughter, and Trapper. We talked about our childhoods, spent on opposite ends of our far-away continent; about school, college and residency, hours of studying and sleepless nights; about how much we hated the war, hated this place, hated what we had to do and see each day; about how much we wanted to go home, and what we'd do when that day finally came; and, near the end, about us, him and me, and the thing between us that we chose not to give a name to—a slightly uncomfortable discussion, but necessary. We agreed that we were attracted to each other on more than just a physical level (though there was certainly a great amount of attraction there), and he admitted, somewhat nervously, that he had never "been with" another man before.

The only thing that could have pulled us out of our conversation was the P.A. system, which announced wounded in the compound. I realized, as BJ and I ran to help with triage, that I was doing far too much not-sleeping, and resolved to change that—after all, I was only human (an amazing, flawless specimen of humanity, but human nonetheless).

By the time we stumbled from O.R., we'd missed breakfast and lunch, and even though Radar had brought us cold boloney sandwiches, my stomach was trying to gnaw its way out through my bellybutton. Food came before bed, and even though the mess tent's slop hardly qualified as food, it would at least tame the beast in my belly.

Trapper and BJ had been walking on either side of me, and as soon as we got to the door, they both fell back to let me be first in line, and then they waged a silent battle for who would be second. I sighed, grabbed Trapper's arm, and pushed him in front of me, separating the two of them. They were like little children, both fighting for the same thing—me. I was getting thoroughly fed up with it.

Potter, Margaret, and Frank were already sitting at a table, and I went to join them; BJ and Trap followed, of course. Just to see what they'd do, I sat at the end of the bench; they fought briefly, and it was Trapper who finally squeezed himself in between Potter and me; BJ, scowling faintly, sat down across from me, next to Margaret, who raised her eyebrows at me. I rolled my eyes, and she smiled slightly.

"Could you pass the salt?" I asked the table at large. BJ and Trapper threw themselves at the shaker, but Margaret got there first, so the other two settled for glaring at each other.

"That's it," Potter snapped, glaring at Trap and BJ. "Spill! You two've been at each other's throats this whole week, and I want to know _why_."

BJ managed to look surprised. "There's nothing wrong, Colonel."

"BJ and I're great friends," Trapper lied easily. "Aren't we?"

"We sure are," BJ said with a tight smile.

I sighed, Potter snorted, Frank giggled, Margaret rolled her eyes, and my two best friends went back to glaring.

Back in the Swamp, before Frank came in, I turned to the two of them with a glare of my own, and said, "Much as I appreciate the two of you fighting over me, I don't appreciate the two of you fighting over me!"

"We're not fighting over you!" they shouted simultaneously, and then glared at each other.

"C'mon, let's all sit down in a circle, hold hands, and sing a few rounds of 'Kumbaya'."

"There's no need for that," BJ said airily.

"I think my mitten has a hole in it," I mentioned idly, and they'd both stripped their gloves off before realizing what they were doing and grimacing. I grinned triumphantly. "See? Now stop!"

"Stop what?" Trapper growled, shoving his hands back into his gloves and flinging himself down onto his bunk. "We're not doing anything."

"You're acting like children!"

"Am not!" BJ whined, and stuck his tongue out at me.

Not amused, I threw my hands up and stomped from the Swamp. I wasn't really surprised when BJ caught up with me and offered tentatively, "I'm sorry?"

"If you were really sorry, you'd stop fighting with him."

"I will if he does."

I stopped, crossing my arms over my chest and turning to face him. "_Or_, you could be the bigger man and stop first."

"I think I'd be happier if he did."

"_I'd_ be happier if _you_ did!"

He sighed and made puppy eyes at me, that irresistible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was almost impossible to stay angry with him. "Just…try to work something out with Trapper, please? For me?"

And then I was drowning in the full force of his smile. "For you—I'll try. Promise."

_For me. He'll do it for me._ There was that melty feeling again, and I had to keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as we walked, because if I looked at him I'd break out in a stupid, goofy grin. I think I managed not to reveal my girlish swooning as I said, "Thank you."

We were walking close together—if anyone asked, our excuse would be that it was cold—and his hand happened to be brushing rather suggestively against my hip. Suggestively enough that I was a few subtle caresses away from tackling him to the ground, and screw the blue discharge papers. Luckily, I was saved from that fate by Trapper, jogging up and throwing his arm casually around my shoulders. "Hey, Hawk," he said in a loud whisper that BJ was sure to hear, "word is Nurse Foster's got a bottle of wine and is looking for someone to share it with. You've had your eye on her a while, haven't you?"

Yes. Yes, I had. Earlier. Before. But not now, not anymore. Not…since BJ. My eyes and hands and thoughts no longer seemed to be wandering constantly to nurses; I hadn't had a date with one in over a month, hadn't had sex with one in even longer. Hawkeye the skirt-chaser seemed to have been replaced by Hawkeye the Beej-chaser. But I managed a grin for Trapper, thanked him for the tip, and then escaped from both of them by pleading a sudden attack of sleepy, which was true. They were sympathetic and, like gentlemen, accompanied me back to the Swamp. Frank was there already, and demanded if we'd seen Margaret, and if she'd seemed sad. I ignored him, but Trapper, who seemed to have a soft spot when it came to Frank and his love life, explained that we hadn't seen Margaret since leaving the mess tent. By that time, I'd already burrowed into my bunk and had my pillow folded over my head, so I could only hear the falsely smug and slightly panicky tone in Frank's reply. I smiled slightly; everyone with eyes and ears knew that Margaret had finally dumped Frank, just as everyone knew that Frank was still helplessly, hopelessly in love with her. I found it endlessly amusing—it was easier to be happy when I had Frank's love life to mock, so I could avoid thinking of my own joke-worthy love life.

**TBC**


	15. Ultimatum

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Fifteen: Ultimatum**

Post-op was nearly empty, and we weren't expecting any more casualties for a few days, so—naturally—everyone who was anyone hitched up their skirts and skipped on over to the Officer's Club for a night of light-hearted revelry and—naturally—a small amount of debauchery. Naturally, Trapper, BJ, and I were among the last to remain, after lesser souls had drunk themselves silly and stumbled off to bed. I dragged myself up to the bar for another beer and paused to talk about God only knows what with Klinger; the conversation ended abruptly with a crash, and I swung around unsteadily to see the table I'd just come from knocked over, along with the cluster of chairs around it. And there, rolling on the floor, were Trap and BJ, both aiming punches at the other. I swore and leapt up heroically, and dashed over to grab Trapper's shoulders, trying to pull him off. He tried to twist out of my grip, pulled me off-balance, and incidentally placed my face in the area where his hand been seconds before—and, thusly, right in the line of BJ's punch. His fist caught me squarely in the eye, and I reeled back, clutching at my face, stumbling against the jukebox. Wetness seeping through my fingers—_blood, oh God, he ruptured my eye, I'm blind, I'm blind, my eye's gone, I'll never see again_—but I realized after a moment of panicky exploration that the blood was coming from my cheek, the skin split across my cheekbone. Apparently, my skin wasn't as thick as everyone seemed to think.

Hands were grabbing at me, Trapper asking if I was okay, BJ apologizing again and again, Trapper telling him to shut up and leave me alone and BJ issuing another threat, Klinger telling them both to back off and grabbing my shoulders, leading me outside. "I'm gonna take you to get your face looked at, Captain, you're bleeding a little. But don't _worry_, it doesn't look too bad, you know? You're gonna be just fine. Right in here…"

Margaret was the nurse on duty (I'd heard from Baker, who was supposed to be watching over post-op tonight, that Margaret had taken her place so that Baker could join the party at the O-Club), and she pulled me into the room where we saw to all the minor wounds like broken bones and hangnails and the wounded bystanders of bar fights. Potter, already angry at being woken from his dreams, took BJ and Trapper into his office for their second stern talking-to of the week.

Margaret gently wiped the blood away from my wound, and murmured, "It's not deep enough to need stitches. How's your eye?"

"Hurts," I mumbled, and winced as talking moved the tender muscles of my face, and whimpered as the wince had the same effect as talking.

"What were those two…_children_ fighting about this time?"

My eye had stopped trying to flood itself, and I could actually see now, so I glanced at Margaret out of the corners of both eyes as she rummaged around for something to hold against my wound to staunch the bleeding. We hadn't spoken much since our night of intense drunkenness, and I had very little memory of just how much I'd said to her about the convoluted messiness between myself and BJ and Trapper, and she hadn't brought up any charges yet. So she either didn't remember or didn't care, or I hadn't said as much as I thought I did. Not knowing what was safe and what was taboo, I wasn't sure how to answer her.

She met my eyes, and must have seen the answer there for herself, since she sighed and patted my arm gently—which left me slightly more confused, since she didn't say anything for another few minutes. And when she did speak, I almost wished she hadn't said anything at all. "They won't stop until one of them wins, you know. They're both stubborn and determined, and they want the same thing. Neither of them will ever give up…unless you make it clear that one has won and one has lost."

My stomach dropped down to my toes and my heart decided it wanted to live in my throat from now on. _Choose._ She was saying I had to choose between Trapper and BJ, my best friend and my lover (_Can I call him that if we haven't had sex yet?_). They were like salt and pepper—I loved them both, and they were the only things that made life (or, in the case of the salt and the pepper, food) bearable here in this Hell-on-Earth. I couldn't _choose_—it was impossible, you couldn't have food with pepper and no salt, or vice versa. You needed both. They each had their own special _something_ to add, and if you gave up one, you lost that something forever, and two somethings were, without a doubt, much better than one something. I wanted both somethings. "I can't choose," I whispered desperately, staring down at my feet. "It's—that's not the sort of thing you can just… It's not like picking out clothes or something like that, it's— I can't—"

"You have to do something. If they keep going like this, Colonel Potter will have one or both of them transferred. And then we could end up with two Franks." The disgust dripping from her voice almost made me smile.

"I take it you two haven't made up yet?"

"No, and we're not going to."

"Good. You deserve a lot better than him, Margaret."

"I know I do. I—"

The door was flung open, and BJ and Trapper scrambled into the room, both trying to shout questions louder than the other. I glanced over at Margaret; she smiled, patted my arm reassuringly, and slipped out of the room unnoticed. I glared from Trapper to BJ and back again until they both faded into silence, and then I pushed myself up from the chair and announced, "I'm done. _You two_ are going to work this out from now on. I will not speak to, socialize with, or acknowledge in any way, either of you until you've come to some kind of agreement." That said, I turned and left the room.

They followed me, shouting questions, demanding answers, but I ignored them fairly easily. It was almost amusing, after a little while. I felt a little bit like the pied piper—Hawkeye, the Pied Piper of South Korea, playing my Magical Pipe of Indifference to make the Swamprats follow me. Even in the Swamp, after I'd curled up under my blankets and pulled my pillow over my head, I fell asleep to increasingly frantic questions and Frank's demands for silence.

**TBC**


	16. Plans and Punishment

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Sixteen: Plans and Punishment **

As punishment for conduct unbecoming of officers, BJ and Trapper were put on KP duty for a week. Igor was downright giggly at the prospect of being on the other end of the ladle, and the entirety of the enlisted personnel was looking forward to being able to subtly (or not so subtly, in most cases) insult or otherwise mock their superior officers, even if Trapper and BJ were so well-liked—it was the principle of the matter: enlisted men rarely got the opportunity to see the officers knocked down off the pedestals we apparently stood on. I was rather enjoying my self-imposed solitude, and if I started to feel a little lonely, there was always Margaret. (I'd been spending a great deal of time with her, much to the enjoyment of the 4077 rumor mill.) Frank was certainly profiting from my vow to ignore my two friends, but Father Mulcahy expressed concern that I was being too harsh on them. Before I could answer, Potter jumped in with something to the effect of "they deserve a lot worse than what Pierce and I are giving them, the way they've been acting lately," with which I agreed wholeheartedly. If only Potter knew the half of it. Though if he knew the half of it, I probably wouldn't still be here to know the half of it with.

I was in the Swamp at the end of their week of dual punishment, idly looking through one of my nudist magazines and sipping a martini, when two shadows fell across me. I looked up to see everyone's new favorite kitchen personnel looking down at me with smiles, which was enough to make me raise an eyebrow.

"We've come to an agreement," Trapper announced.

I allowed my second eyebrow to join the first.

"We've realized the error of our ways," BJ said.

I folded my magazine and set it aside.

Beej continued, "We haven't been very fair to you. And when it comes down to it—"

"—_you're_ the one that matters."

I was beginning to sense something not quite right. There was something in their tones…

"So," BJ said, his voice the essence of logic, "we came up with two options, and you'll have to choose the one you like best."

"We thought it all out _very_ carefully."

"Option One—"

"This was my idea," Trapper interrupted proudly.

"—we cut you in half."

"I wanted to do top and bottom, but we decided left and right'd be better. He gets the left side, since he already damaged it."

"It's only fair."

"Or there's Option Two."

A pointed pause, and I was almost afraid to ask, "What's Option Two?" I winced in anticipation.

"In Option Two," BJ said grandly, "we flip a coin."

"But that's only the start."

"The winner of the coin-toss gets you for five hours of the first day, and after the first five hours, we rotate you every two hours. The second day, the loser of the original coin-toss gets you for five hours, with a rotation every two hours following that."

"On the third day, the winner gets you for the whole day; loser gets you on the fourth day."

"It starts to get a little complicated on the fifth day—"

"_Starts_?!" I exclaimed, but BJ ignored me.

"We flip the coin again, and this time the loser gets you first, for exactly two hours and twenty-four minutes, and we rotate for that same amount of time."

"We calculated all this based on an eighteen-hour day," Trapper explained. "It doesn't quite come out even, but it just means that one of us gets three extra minutes with you somewhere."

"How sensical." I had to fight to keep an edge of hysteria out of my voice.

"We haven't even gotten to the good part yet," Trapper said with a grin. And to BJ: "You wanna start it?"

"Sure." To me: "Since you wanted us to be more friendly, we've created a special plan for day six."

"It even has options."

"Sub-option Two-A: We get a deck of cards, and have you draw one at random. If it's a black suit and below ten—"

"Aces are high."

"—I get you for the day; if it's a red suit and below ten, Trapper gets you."

"If it's black and a ten or a jack, we flip a coin, and the winner gets first dibs on a two-hour rotation. If it's a red ten or jack, we have a rock-paper-scissors tournament—"

"Four out of seven wins."

"—and the winner gets you for three and a half hours, and then we switch you off every hour after that."

"Now, if it's a queen of any suit, we strip down and wrestle in the compound. Whoever wins is really the loser, and the real loser wins you for the day."

"If it's a black king—"

"Here's the part you'll like."

"—BJ gets to fuck me. If it's a red king, I get to fuck him."

"It'll create a kind of camaraderie between us, so we don't fight as much."

"And if it's an ace of any suit, we both get to fuck you together."

"Which will teach us to work together and cooperate."

"And then, for Sub-option Two-B—"

"_STOP_!" I shouted, clapping my hands over my ears.

"But we haven't even finished day six!" BJ complained.

"He's no fun if he hasn't had his nap yet."

"Stop! Stop, stop, _stop_!"

And they did. They stood, quietly, gazing down at me with expressions of complete innocence, and I stared back up at them, for once at a loss for words. The verbose Hawkeye, speechless.

"Which option d'you like best?" Trapper finally asked, tentatively.

I glared, pushed myself up, and stomped from the tent. As I left, I heard BJ say, "I don't think he liked our ideas very much."

* * *

A few hours and a few drinks later, I came stumbling back into the Swamp. All the lights were off, and I could hear Trapper snoring softly, but that wasn't about to stop me—I'd gotten a whole speech prepared. "You two," I shouted, and heard cots creak as they woke up suddenly, "are _idiots_! You're immature and childish and you don't care and—" 

"Shut _up_!" Frank wailed, and at the same time hands grabbed my arms, and I was dragged backwards, outside, flailing and shouting until a hand was clapped over my mouth.

"Hawkeye," BJ said softly, calmly, above me, "_breathe_."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Trapper demanded helpfully.

I tore my arms out of their hands and stumbled backwards, nearly fell, slapped their hands away when they tried to catch me. "_You two_ are what's wrong with me!"

Frowning, BJ asked, "Is this about before—?"

"_Yes_!"

"Hawk, we were just messing around."

"I _know_! That's the _point_! _I'm_ the only one taking any of this _seriously_!" I was shouting loud enough that most of the camp could probably hear me, but I didn't care. I was drunk and angry and tired and sick of the way they were acting.

"Hawk," Trapper said, his voice calm, reasonable, "BJ and I've worked things out, like you wanted. We figured out a way we could both be happy, and still have you be happy. We were just joking around with you before. So can you try to be not angry for a minute or two?"

"Huh?" I asked blankly. Alcohol always seemed to drown a little of my intelligence which, I suppose, is its purpose. My mind seemed to be moving in slow motion while the rest of the world was rushing by, which made for confusion and a mother of a headache.

"We're not going to fight anymore," BJ said patiently. "We agreed that it was stupid and pointless, and harmful to your health. So, we're going to share you, peacefully."

I'd had a speech prepared. A whole mini-rant that could have easily evolved into a fully-fledged rant under the right circumstances. I'd been very proud of it. And now they'd just ruined it, because they'd already made peace. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

"C'mon," Trapper said gently. "It's late. You need to sleep. If you want, you can beat us up in the morning, okay?"

They took my arms again and escorted me to my bunk, tucked me in, shut Frank up when he started to say something about my alleged alcoholism, and both wished me and each other cheerful "good night"s. And I was feeling more confused than ever.

**TBC**


	17. Fade to Black

A brief thank you to **Olive Drab** for the thought of Hawkeye being treated as a chocolate bar. The rest of you will understand in a second, because it was just too good an idea to pass up.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Seventeen: Fade to Black**

"So," I said slowly, carefully, wanting to make sure I had it right, "you're friends now?"

BJ and Trapper looked at each other, nodded, shrugged, and Trapper said, "Something like that."

"More like we've come to a truce. You two will remain best friends, and I won't interfere with that; you and I will…whatever…and he won't interfere with us."

"It's simple, and easy to remember."

I looked back and forth between them. They were sitting together on Trapper's cot, facing me on mine—they were within two feet from each other and not fighting, which was the really amazing part. And they both sounded honest, sincere—sounded like they meant what they were saying. If they said they'd made peace, who was I to doubt them? It was what I wanted, wasn't it? Yes, it was. So smile; be happy; thank them, and get on with your merry life. "Okay…" I said, and I didn't sound nearly as certain or confident as I'd hoped to. I'd gotten so used to them bickering and fighting…this just seemed _wrong_. "I just…I feel a little bit like a candy bar."

Trapper snickered. "Whaddya mean?"

"You _do_ resemble chocolate," BJ said with a smile.

"You're—you're breaking off pieces of me, the pieces you each want, and…and I don't want to be _shared_, portioned out like a—like a bar of chocolate!"

"What _do _you want?" BJ asked seriously, his head tilted slightly to the side like a curious puppy.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. _I don't know what I want_ was the first thing that came to mind, but I went with the second thing: "I want you two to be friends with each other and with me. And if you can't be friends, then at least be friend_ly_ or _pretend_ to be friends. No more fighting—over me, or over anything else. And don't _share_ me—no plans or routines on when either of you 'gets me'—which, by the way, will get you a poke in the eye if I ever hear something like _that_ again—_I_ get to decide who I spend time with and when. I'm not a candy bar or a toy for you two to share."

They were both silent for a while; then BJ nodded and said, "Okay. That's fair."

"It…it is?" I stammered, surprised. I'd been expecting them to argue, or at least to say that they hadn't been treating me like a prize to win…but they had been, and they knew it. It would only have made me angry if they'd argued. It was good to have two friends who knew me better than I knew myself.

"I think so," Trapper agreed.

"You're entitled to some terms, and those are fair enough."

"Should we shake on it?" Trapper suggested, and BJ agreed that it seemed like a good idea. They crossed their arms to shake each other's hands and extend one hand to me; I stared for a minute or twelve, and then finally extended my hands, clasping one each of theirs, and we all shook firmly.

"Now that that's done," BJ said cheerfully, standing up, "let's go—breakfast is getting cold."

"Or getting away," Trapper muttered, but he followed BJ to the door, leaving me and my spinning head to bring up the rear.

Igor was back to serving food, since BJ and Trapper had finished their week of servitude, and so I once again sat sandwiched between the two of them, still confused, meekly sniffing my food while they chatted cheerfully over my head. I was almost glad when Potter stepped up to the head of the table with a gloomy, "I've got bad news, boys. Fighting's started up again, and most of it's near the 8063rd. They're getting flooded with casualties again, and they need help. Pierce, I know you'd just _love_ to volunteer, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no. McIntyre, Hunnicutt, since you're both still on my black list, I'm sending you."

"Both of us?" Trapper exclaimed, looking alarmed. "Colonel—"

"Don't argue!" Potter barked. "You're going, and that's _final_! And if I hear _one_ bad report about _either_ of you, you're _both_ going on report! Got it?"

"Got it," they both mumbled.

"You leave A-SAP, with Nurses Graham and Baker. _Move_!"

Muttering apologies to me, they both jumped up and hurried from the tent with Potter hot on their heels. I finished eating, managing to clear and calm my head a little with the sudden peace and quiet now surrounding me, before wandering outside. The nurses and a few corpsmen were packing a jeep with some supplies, and BJ and Trapper were being lectured by Potter.

"…some shelling, and the fighting could come closer. They can't bug out, because they're getting too many wounded—they need to stay right where they are. Just…watch yourselves, boys. We want you back in one piece."

"The easiest way to ensure that would be to not send us," BJ suggested. He was looking a little pale—this would be the first time he was sent out of the camp to help, and add to that that he was moving _closer_ to the fighting…I couldn't say I blamed him for being a little pale.

Potter glared sternly, but chose not to acknowledge the comment. "I don't want you two making asses of yourselves like Pierce did—show Sam Harbourn that we don't all have our thumbs in our ears and our feet in our mouths here at the 4077th."

"Give my love to Uncle Sam," I said cheerily, and Potter turned to glare at me while Trapper smirked and BJ smiled tightly.

Klinger stepped up with a salute, nearly knocking off his wide-brimmed, flowered hat. "Everything's packed except the captains, sir."

"Good," Potter said, and gave Trapper and BJ a final glare. "Behave. Now, _move out_!"

BJ sketched a quick salute—he was still doing that every once in a while, and I'd almost come to think of it as adorable—and he and Trapper climbed into the jeep, Trapper driving; BJ, gentleman that he is, gallantly offered the passenger seat to Nurse Graham, who tittered something about how polite he was, and I felt an insane surge of jealousy. _You and I will…whatever…_, which, as far as I was concerned, translated into _I'm yours, take me at the soonest possible moment, but don't worry, because I'll be yours forever_—how _dare_ Carrie Graham even look at him—he, BJ, _my_ Beej—like that? The insane jealousy was followed by an insane urge to go slap the woman and stake my claim on BJ in some public and intensely humiliating way. Somehow, I managed to keep control of myself, and twiddled my fingers at BJ when he turned in his seat to wave goodbye to me. I stood there even after the jeep had roared out of sight, smiling slightly, with a single thought swirling through my head: _He's mine…he's mine…he's mine…_

* * *

_(AN: BJ POV. Wow—all caps there.)_

We passed through checkpoint after checkpoint, warned each time that we were driving _towards_ the fighting when anyone with half a brain would have been driving _away_ from it; Trapper, who _may_ have had half a brain, kept driving us towards it. Without Hawkeye around, we let the act drop—there was no point in pretending to be good old chums when the only one who needed to believe it was far away, back behind the trail of dust. None of us spoke much—there was nothing to say, until the shells started going off all around us, and then it was screaming from the nurses, and me shouting for Trapper to pull over, and him shouting back that there was nowhere to hide even if he did, and that it was easier to just drive on through, the North Koreans couldn't hit a speeding jeep if their lives depended on it. Since it was _our_ lives that depended on the jeep not getting blown up, I was still rather fond of the idea of leaping out and cowering in the nearest hole. The shelling didn't stop until we were about ten minutes away from the 8063rd, and I was sure I'd gone deaf, my ears ringing, my whole body covered in dust, a painful bruise on my shoulder where a big tree branch, flung into the air by an explosion, had nearly knocked me sideways into Nurse Baker's lap. We could still hear shelling in the very near distance as we pulled into the 8063rd, and I sincerely hoped that this was as close to the real fighting as I was ever going to get.

The place was packed with wounded; the Chief Nurse, who looked utterly relieved to see us, dragged Trapper off to scrub in, and asked if I wouldn't mind helping with the wounded in the compound—a mix of triage and pre-op and pure hell, with all the screaming and shelling and wounded dying before I could get to them. I would have thought it almost pointless, if it weren't for the few kids that made it into O.R. and had the chance to live.

"Doctor!" someone shouted, and I spun around, looking for the owner of the voice: finally saw him, a corpsman, kneeling next to a single wounded man in the shade of the Officer's Club. I noticed—crazily, pointlessly—that the O-Club here didn't have an "and Enlisted" sign nailed to it, and then I wanted to scream at myself, because why the hell did that matter, there were people _dying_ on every side, shells exploding left and right, coming closer and closer, and more wounded pouring in every second, and more kids, innocent kids, dying before I even knew they were there.

A shell to my left; I dropped down to the ground, crawled the rest of the way to the corpsman and the wounded soldier. I lifted the pressure bandage, and blood spurted, covering my face and chest, and I shoved the blood-soaked bandage back down, adding the pressure of my own hands, and told the corpsman at my side to go get someone, anyone, to help carry the litter, this kid was top priority, he needed to be operated on _now_ if he had any chance of living—

A deafening boom, and I couldn't even hear the ringing in my ears anymore; a hand grabbed at my arm, and I twisted around just as the world fell on me, and everything went black.

(cruelly…)** TBC**


	18. Nightmare

Note: Hawkeye's POV.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Eighteen: Nightmare**

It hit me as the jeep disappeared in a cloud of dust—a football, to the side of my face. And as I floundered around on the ground, a realization came over me: Trapper and BJ were driving _into_ the fighting. If I'd heard right, the 8063 was now directly on the front lines, or close enough (_close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and I can pray the enemy's playing horseshoes_).

"Sorry, Hawkeye!" Corporal Adamson exclaimed as he grabbed my arm, dragging me up off the ground. "You okay? Wind grabbed the ball or somethin', I didn't _mean_ t' hit ya, _honest_—"

"'S okay, Tom," I mumbled, blinking happy dancing spots from my eyes. "Colonel—" I clutched unsteadily at Potter's arm. "How far away is the 8063 from the fighting?"

"They might as well be a battalion aid station, way things are going," Potter said grimly.

I gaped at him. "And— So— _Why the hell did you send them?!_ They could be killed!"

Potter was frowning at me. "Son, _we_ could be killed right now, standing here. That football proves it—you have to expect the unexpected."

"But you sent them _into _the fighting! That—that's _stupid_!"

"Welcome to the Army, Hawkeye."

Any idiot could see that I wasn't going to get any help or sympathy from Potter, so—quasi idiot that I am—I continued to pester him for a while, following him as far as his office before he shut the door rather pointedly in my face. Radar asked what was wrong, and I ordered—no, not ordered, I wouldn't do something cruel like that to Radar—_forcefully asked _him to call the 8063 and get a constant report of activities there, especially any news relating to BJ or Trapper. He gaped at me and pointed out that they'd just left, and there was no way they'd have gotten there by now; I shouted that I didn't care, and raved at him until he grabbed the phone and cowered under his desk with it. Satisfied, I stomped outside.

Satisfaction disappeared as I remembered that they were driving into the fighting. Into shells and bullets and blood and death.

Margaret opened her door at my second round of urgent pounding, dressed in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She clutched at the neck of her robe and exclaimed, "Hawkeye—?"

"Are you busy?"

"Well, I'm hardly decent—"

"But are you busy?"

She must have seen something in my face, or heard something in my voice, because her own face softened and she murmured, "Just give me a minute."

I stood outside her tent, stomping my feet and rubbing my arms for warmth, trying to loosen the cold knot of fear that had tangled up my insides. When Margaret opened the door and let me in, she'd thrown on some clothes, and her damp hair hung messily around her face—I seemed to have gotten my urgency across. I started pacing around the inside of her tent, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, walking in circles around where she stood at the center of the tent, watching me with wide-eyed confusion. "Do you…want to sit down?"

"Potter sent Trapper and BJ to the 8063."

She frowned at me, quite obviously confused. "Yes, I know."

"They could die."

"Is _that_ what's got you so worked up?"

I stopped pacing briefly to glare at her. "Yes." I spun on my heel and walked my circles in the other direction.

She sighed, grabbed my arm and pulled me to her cot, sat down and forced me to sit down next to her, and gently held my hands in hers. "They'll be fine, Hawkeye."

"How can you say that? You don't know that! There—a thousand different things could go wrong! There is a very real probability of them _dying_!"

"Trapper's been to battalion aid stations before, he knows how to take care of himself."

"And BJ? He's never been out of the camp! He doesn't—he'll—_damnit_!" I shoved myself up, slammed my hand against one of the support beams, and went back to pacing.

"Hawkeye, please, try to calm down—"

"Calm down? _Calm down_?!" I gave a bark of laughter, noticing the touch of hysteria and not caring. Trapper had pointed out to me once that when I got worked up about something, I never did it halfway, so if I was going to get into a lather about this, why not make it a good, thorough lather?

Margaret didn't understand—ergo, she couldn't help. So I left, and increased the area of my pacing circles, storming around the compound and muttering under my breath. Potter was no help, and neither was Margaret; Father Mulcahy would toss out insightful anecdotes I didn't give a rat's ass about; there was no one else in the camp that could do anything, except…

"Radar!" I bellowed as I burst into his office, and he jumped up into the air with a scream, coming down in a tangle of limbs and wires.

"Jeez, sir! I mean, for criminy's _sake_—!"

"What's the word, Radar? Are they there yet?"

He still seemed a little flustered, but he stammered out, "No, sir—I mean, they still only left a little bit ago, and even with Cap'n McIntyre driving and, you know, driving how he does, they couldn't've made it there by now—"

I gave a wordless shout and slammed both my fists down on Radar's desk. _Don't half-ass it if you're going to be angry._ He was clutching his clipboard to his chest, his cap and glasses askew in different directions, staring at me with eyes as wide as—screw the metaphors, his eyes were huge and he had that rabbit-in-the-headlights look about him; but then again, he usually looked like that.

Before I could yell more, he stammered out, "The company clerk over at the 8063 said he'd call once the captains got there, and that he'd call again if anything happened that we should know about! It's the best I can do, sir!"

I made an effort to calm myself, and gave Radar a smile that probably looked more like a snarl. "Thanks, Radar. Come get me as soon as you have any word." I went back to the Swamp, empty since Ferret-face had slunk off somewhere. I looked at my bunk, messy and covered with debris, hardly room to lay down without having to go to the trouble of straightening it first; Trapper's was the same way, but BJ's…clean, neatly made, no doubt a habit held over from the States. I grabbed a few of my blankets and flung myself down on his cot, pressing my face against his pillow and breathing in the unique scent that was Beej. I found it to be calming for a few minutes, until my tied-in-knots traitorous stomach reminded me that if BJ died I'd only ever have this residue of his scent, never the real thing.

_Damnit._

And then I was pacing again, inside, outside, around the compound, through post-op, a few laps in O.R., and then back outside, until a shouted "Cap'n Pierce!" in a pre-pubescent voice brought me to a halt. "They got there a few minutes ago, sir, I just got the call from the 8063, and they're fine!"

"Good!" I crowed, slapping Radar on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward a few steps. We raced to his office together, and I made him call the 8063 at regular intervals to check up on BJ and Trapper, until the combined displeasure of the 8063's clerk at being constantly bothered and Potter at not being able to use his phone conspired to send me huddling in the corner, awaiting the whim of the 8063's clerk to alert me to my friends' statuses and, at Potter's orders, pondering all possible meanings of the word "patience."

The phone rang, and I scrambled up, shoving my head next to Radar's to try to hear what was being said, but all I heard was crackling; Radar, on the other hand, seemed to be able to hear just fine, and judging by the way his face got pale and his jaw dropped, it wasn't anything he wanted to be hearing. He called for Potter to pick up the phone, and then hung his own receiver up while I grabbed his arm and demanded to know what it was, what had happened, why the hell he looked like he'd just seen a ghost, but before I could get more than a few weak head-shakes from him, Potter's voice called me into his office. That cold knot in my belly looped itself up a few more times, contracted, and I suddenly found it almost impossible to walk, my legs turned to jelly and not in a good way, my head spinning—Radar's reaction, and that note in Potter's voice, that weary acceptance, already told me what the call had been about. I didn't want to hear it, couldn't hear the words, would rather die not knowing the details than to have to hear them spoken aloud, to hear my worst fears confirmed, all my nightmares come true… Radar, I think, propelled me forward, through the doors, into Potter's office, where I collapsed in one of the chairs, clutching at its arms, my eyes closed, throat working uselessly, trying to block out the words even as he spoke them: "…heavy shelling…hit hard, a few buildings collapsed…BJ…thinks he might have gone AWOL…missing, anyway…"

_Missing…missing…missing…_ The word echoed inside my head, the reverberations of a giant bell, an echoing gong struck over and over. _MISSINGmissingmissingmissing…MISSINGmissingmissingmissing…_

And then the cold fear trickled away, and all I felt was numb. I stood, and walked from the room, dimly aware that Potter and Radar were following me. I got as far as the motor pool before Potter grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away; I yanked my arm out of his hand and climbed into the nearest jeep. Potter planted himself firmly in front of the jeep, his hands on his hips, face set and determined, but somehow gentle, understanding. He didn't understand. No one did. "Where're you going, son?" he asked softly, but of course, he already knew the answer.

"To find him."

Potter shook his head. "No." Soft, gentle—firm, unyielding.

I didn't care. "Move."

Again, "No."

I started up the jeep; he didn't even flinch. "I'm going." A simple statement, one that hardly needed to be said. He could try, but he wouldn't stop me. I wouldn't let him. "I _have_ to go." He just stood there, staring levelly back at me, confidence in every line of his compact little frame. And my anger rose in the face of his calmness—he was wasting my time, wasting _BJ's_ time. My voice rose, that note of hysteria back: "Don't you understand? He could be _dying_! I—I have to—I have to _go_, I have to help! I have to do _something_, damnit!"

"There's nothing you can do, Hawkeye."

"_Damn you_!" I screamed, pounding my fists against the steering wheel. My vision blurred with tears, and I could feel them freezing against my cheeks. All the anger, all the rage, all the energy, seemed to drain from my body, and I leaned against the wheel, sobbing; a hand rested on my shoulder while another hand turned off the jeep, and then two sets of hands lifted me, directed me gently into the Swamp, towards my bunk; but I pulled away, stumbled to BJ's bunk and the pile of blankets I'd left there, and I collapsed, breathing in the smell of him and thinking, _I'll never see him again…_

**TBC**


	19. Never Never Land

Note: This chapter is going to have multiple POVs so, for convenience's sake, I will put the name of the character, in handy bold letters, whose POV it is at the top of the section that that character will be POVing.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Nineteen: Never Never Land**

**Trapper**

I was up to my elbows in a kid's stomach when I noticed the corpsman whispering to Harbourn, both of them looking at me with a sort of look I didn't like at all. Harbourn finally asked, "McIntyre, have you seen Captain Hunnicutt recently?"

"I've been in here since I got here," I snapped. "When would I've seen him?"

"I was just asking, Captain," Harbourn growled. He didn't seem to like me a whole lot, which was just fine by me, on account of me not liking him right back.

"I thought you had him outside running that sorry excuse for triage you've got."

"He _was_. Now, he seems to have gone missing."

"Missing?" I repeated. "Whaddya mean, _missing_?"

"I mean we can't find him. He's _missing_."

"You think he's gone AWOL?"

"My people have looked everywhere, and they can't find him. Yes, I think he's gone AWOL."

"What about that shelling we had a little while ago? You said it knocked a few buildings down—what if he got trapped under one?"

"He was nowhere near any of the ruined buildings when he was last seen."

I snorted, looking up from my patient to shake my head at Harbourn. Hawk was right, this guy was an ass. "So you just decided not to check? Hunnicutt's not the kinda guy to go AWOL. Get your people to look in the rubble or whatever, he's gotta be there somewhere."

"I don't take orders, _Captain_. I give them."

"I know, that's why I'm telling you to order your men to look for him."

I thought for sure he was gonna bite my head off, and we stood just staring at each other from across the room for a good minute or two, till he finally turned to his corpsman and ordered him to get together a team to look through the destroyed buildings. He also ordered the guy to talk to the company clerk and see if he could get another surgeon to replace Hunnicutt, since the wounded were still pouring in and we needed someone for triage and pre-op. "Don't take anyone from the 4077th," I warned.

"Why not?" Harbourn demanded, glaring at me again.

"You've already got two of our surgeons, you don't need another one."

"The 4077 is the closest MASH unit, and we _need_ another surgeon!"

_Oh, you're just asking for it, boy…_ I wasn't quite as good at chewing out stupid people as Hawkeye was, but I could do a good enough job of it when I had to. "You won't take Pierce, since he pointed out you were an ass. You can't have Potter, since, you know, he kinda has to be there to run the place and all. And if you bring in Burns, he'll kill more kids'n he'll save. That's all the surgeons we got! Get someone from a different unit!"

"We need a surgeon outside, _now_!"

"Fine, you want someone outside? I'll go." I took a step back from my table, pulling my hands outta my patient's stomach. Blood spurted nicely, and Harbourn screamed at me to stop fooling around, and what the hell kind of a doctor am I? "Get someone from a different unit," I said again, calm, talking just loud enough that he could hear me over his own screaming.

"Fine, fine! The 8055!"

"Thank you," I said cheerfully, and stepped back to the table. My kid'd only lost a little blood, and the damage was easy enough to fix—as far as I was concerned, worth it to see the look in Harbourn's eyes.

"You're as bad as Pierce," Harbourn growled, and I could hear it in his voice that he was just itching to wrap his hands around my throat.

I smiled under my mask. "Thanks."

* * *

**Hawkeye**

They seemed to think I was a flight risk. At least, that's what I assumed the two armed corporals outside my door meant. Luckily for me, one of them was Klinger. I "psst"ed him closer to the door, and cajoled him to let me out. He was reluctant to go against Potter's orders to keep a close watch on me, so I had to go against all my scruples and order Klinger to let me out, but he explained sadly that a Captain couldn't countermand a Colonel's orders. A flash of brilliance struck me, and I pointed out to him that he needed four doctors' signatures to get his section eight, and if he allowed me to go find BJ, there would happen to be three doctors willing to sign—me, Trapper, and BJ, and then it would only be a matter of tricking Frank into signing. He "escorted me to the latrines," leaving the other corporal standing guard outside the Swamp, and Klinger—who reasoned that if he stayed with me, he wouldn't exactly be defying orders—and I hopped into a jeep and went roaring out of camp.

I drove, probably way too fast, but I couldn't afford to waste any more time. BJ could be dead or dying, and every second I wasted made the former more probable. I had to find him, save him, and that meant getting to the 8063 as fast as possible. Not even the shells, when they started going off to every direction, could make me slow down. They didn't matter, they were nothing—all that mattered was BJ, and me getting to him in time.

"Chaos" was the only word that could be used to describe the 8063 when we pulled into the compound—or got as far into the compound as was possible, with all the wounded laying around, and doctors, nurses, and corpsmen dashing every which way. I leapt out of the jeep, shouted over my shoulder for Klinger to ask around for BJ. I grabbed the first arm that came to my fingers, dragging a running nurse to a stop, and demanded, "Have you seen a Captain Hunnicutt? A surgeon. He's been missing."

She shook her head impatiently and ran on. I got the same sort of reply from the next few people I asked, but a lieutenant finally asked, "Hunnicutt? Are you the surgeon they sent to replace him?"

"Re—replace?"

"Yeah, Colonel Harbourn said the 8055 was sendin' a surgeon—that you?"

"No, I—they told me I was supposed to help find Hunnicutt."

"Oh, okay. Well then, you wanna go see Sergeant Zimmer over there, he's in charge a searchin' for the missin'." He pointed vaguely towards a dozen people sorting through piles of wood and fabric—buildings destroyed by the shelling. I thanked the lieutenant and went to find Sergeant Zimmer, who set me to work digging through the wreckage of what he said had been the O-Club. As I searched frantically through the debris, I found myself, for one of the few times in my life, praying. Hawkeye the atheist, the cynic, begging God to let BJ be alive, to let me find him before it was too late. "Please," I whispered, feeling the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes and not caring, "please, _please_…"

"Hawkeye!" A hand on my arm, pulling me down, away, wrenching me around to face brown eyes, brown eyes in a worried face, brown eyes—not the blue I was looking for, not the blue I so desperately needed to see—

"Hawk, what're you doing here?"

I stared blankly at Trapper. What was I doing here? What the hell did he _think_ I was doing here? "Looking…BJ…"

He looked as stricken as I felt. "Damnit, they _told_ you? The _idiots_… Hawk, c'mon, come over here—"

"No!" I shouted, wrenching away from him, turning back to the pile of broken wood and fabric. "I have to—have to find him, I can't—I have to find him." He didn't stop me when I scrambled back up the trail I'd made through the debris and started digging again, desperately hopeful and hopefully desperate, for once in my life the optimist, because if I became my normal pessimistic self, I'd realize it was hopeless, there was no chance, they would have found him by now, and since they hadn't I certainly wouldn't, so what was the point, what was the point in trying, in wasting my time, my hope, my energy—why not save all three and go curl up in a corner for a good sob, and listen to the sound of my heart breaking? That was all that was left, it was all over but for the heartbreak, but I _couldn't_ think of that, I had to be optimistic, I had to _believe _he was alive, because if you believed hard enough and long enough, the blind and uncaring God might just decide to throw you a bone, throw you a shimmer of light, of life, of _hope_, and answer your desperately hopefully and hopefully desperate prayers for once in your life. _'__Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!'_

A crash next to me as Trapper pushed away a heavy piece of wood. I looked over at him; he looked back, levelly. We said nothing; just dug deeper and deeper. Desperate. Hopeless.

* * *

**BJ**

It was dark…so dark. A mountain had fallen on me, and I lay crushed beneath it. My body was twisted awkwardly, my legs facing one way and my torso facing the other, and judging by the searing pain in my hip, I'd done some serious damage; my left arm was trapped under my back, and there was something pressing heavily on my chest, preventing me from moving the arm, but I could move the right one, could move my hand in order to push the crushing weight off my face, so I could turn my head and see, to search through the darkness for—_there!_ a single spot of light, far above me, too far. But it meant I had air, and light, and it was enough, for now.

There was a groan, to my left. I could turn my head just enough to see an arm, protruding from the debris, fingers hanging above me, blood dripping down the arm to pool on my shoulder. The fingers twitched weakly. There was nothing I could do.

A crash, impossibly loud, and my spot of light vanished. I think I groaned, or maybe it was the owner of the arm, but I could feel tears running down into my hair. A crash again, and a scraping, and I whimpered, hurt and confused, lost and alone, terrified, terrified, _what was happening?_

And then the world opened up, my vanished spot of light expanding, blinding, and I cried out, turned my head away, tried to cover my eyes. A shout above me, and a hand reaching down, resting lightly on my head, another hand wrapping around the fingers of my free hand. "It's okay," a voice said, soft, gentle, comforting. "You're gonna be just fine…"

**TBC**


	20. Heartbeat

Note: All I know about medicine comes from watching shows like MASH, ER, and Grey's Anatomy. Which is to say, I know nothing. So, if I get medical stuff wrong, please forgive me—I know not what I do.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty: Heartbeat**

There was darkness again, but not the suffocating, terrifying darkness of before. This was a peaceful darkness, the darkness of closed eyes and the edges of sleep. I felt like I was floating, bodiless, separated from everything, all concerns gone. There was only the darkness, and the peace, and that was all I wanted.

I realized after a bit of floating that I was probably drugged to the gills, as they say. That was just fine by me. Morphine was a godsend. I could distinctly feel the barrier it made between my floating self and my body, and could feel, faintly, the pain that awaited me beyond that barrier. I would avoid crossing the barrier for as long as I could.

I felt when it began to disintegrate, the barrier crumbling slowly and the first tendrils of pain sneaking out to wrap around my floating self. So I _did_ have a body. I became aware of my heartbeat first, a steady _thump-thump_, comforting. Awareness spread outward from there, nothing spectacularly exciting about the blood flowing outward from my beating heart, until I noticed that I had hands, and that there were fingers not my own wrapped around one of them.

"Beej?"

And when awareness, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, had returned, the pain came. Not the flood I'd expected, but more of an _ache_ rather than a _hurt_. My whole body ached. I felt like a giant bruise. Most of the ache was centered around my legs, but it felt like there was a pressure on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, making it harder for my heart to _thump-thump_, and breathing too deeply sent a shock of pain through my chest. I could feel the bandaging around my left wrist, but that was only a minor ache, compared to the rest.

It felt like there was a man, or maybe a group of men, crouched just behind my eyes, pounding away at the inside of my skull with little hammers. No, not pounding—it was more like a refined little tap, meant more to annoy than to pain. Whatever the purpose was, it was both painful and a pain. The peaceful, floating darkness had faded, but if I could keep my aching eyes closed, I could hold onto the remnants of the darkness, of the not-quite-sleep. The darkness was safe—within the darkness, I didn't have to think, didn't have to remember. I could just lay here in the silence, the peace, the safety—

"Beej, are…are you awake?"

I opened my eyes just a crack, expecting the bright, blinding light again; but it wasn't there, thank God, and I sighed with relief. I could turn my head a little without any pain, and saw him sitting there, next to the bed, and I smiled. "Hawkeye." Even whispering sparked a small twinge of pain in my chest—a cracked or broken rib, if I was any judge.

"How do you feel?"

"What—what happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"I was…there was a wounded soldier. I had to—and then…" I shook my head. It felt like there were cobwebs filling my skull, and my thoughts were slow, sluggish. "It was dark. I—I don't know…"

"A shell exploded near where you were. The, uh…the O-Club fell on you."

The boom, the crash, the darkness…it made as much sense as anything over here. "There…there was a corpsman, and the soldier…are they…?"

"The corpsman is fine, just a few broken bones."

He stopped, seemed reluctant to go on; I prompted, "And the GI?"

He squeezed my fingers gently, his eyes soft, sad, compassionate. "There was just too much damage…he was gone by the time we found him."

I squeezed my eyes shut, sighing painfully. _Damnit, damnit, damnit…_ Hawkeye had been wrong, it didn't get easier over time, each death hurt as bad as the first, each kid I couldn't save was another failure to mark on the tally. How could you ever get used to it—a beating heart one second, the next second still, lifeless, _dead_. Alive—dead. A thin line separating the two, and there was only so much one person could do, and so often you just couldn't do enough, couldn't pull them back to the right side of the line, had to watch as they slipped away, heartbeat slowing, slowing, stopping, gone, gone forever, _I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, I did everything I could to save your little baby son, Jr. So-and-so, but I just couldn't do enough, I failed, and I hope you can forgive me because God knows _I_ won't ever forgive me—_

Hawkeye's hand rested lightly on my forehead, moved down to brush away the unwanted tears from the corners of my eyes. I leaned into the gentle caress, wishing the brush of his fingers could wipe away all the bad memories, all the pain. I swallowed hard, winced at the pain in my chest, and opened my eyes, turning my head away slightly to break the contact between my face and his fingers. "What're you doing here?" I asked softly, thickly.

He pulled back slightly, confusion plain on his face. "I…when I heard you were missing, I came to…"

I laughed softly, which, in hindsight, was probably not the best thing to do. He busied himself pressing his fingers against my chest in a very professional way while I explained, "I mean why are you _here_—the 8063? I thought Harbourn—"

"Harbourn's dead." A flat, emotionless statement, and I gaped in surprise. I almost would have expected a small amount of glee from Hawkeye at the announcement that one of his archenemies was no more—"one less idiot to screw up my life" was the sort of attitude I would've expected from him—but he didn't sound like he felt anything; no sadness, but no happiness, either. "He decided to play hero and dashed out to the front line—which was about twenty feet away at the time—and had a bullet for dinner. The present interim C.O. is one Major Schmidt, who has even less of a backbone than Frank Burns. Does that hurt?"

"Yes," I wheezed as I his fingers pressed against a particularly sensitive spot on my chest.

"Sorry. I informed Schmidt that I was your doctor and, as such, am staying here until you're well enough to be moved. Which, if I have it my way, will be by the end of the day, 'cause this place is fucked up."

I laughed again, and clutched weakly at his arm as pain shot through me. "Stop…making me…_laugh_!" He smiled, a little of the worry drifting out of his face, and gently patted my shoulder. When I'd gotten my breath back, I said, "Give it to me straight, doc—will I ever play the piano again?"

He raised an eyebrow at me. "I don't see why not…"

"Strange—I never could before."

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You should be ashamed, BJ Hunnicutt, for even _thinking_ those words!"

"You fell for it," I pointed out, chuckling as softly as possible to keep my chest from exploding in pain. "So what's wrong with me?"

"You've probably noticed by now that you have a few cracked ribs—not too serious, but you should try to stay off them for a while—and your left wrist is sprained. You were, uh, slightly half-buried under the wreckage which resulted in a—your hip was, uh, dislocated, but we, we put it back right and all, and there shouldn't be any lasting damage or anything…and you've got a few minor lacerations, but nothing too bad…" He met my eyes, his face all seriousness. "You were lucky."

"You're telling me?"

He pulled his hands into his lap, twisting them nervously around and around; I reached out and rested my hand over his, stilling their movements, and he looked back up at me. "You could've died."

"But I didn't. I'm feeling quite alive, thanks to you."

He smiled ruefully. "You're thanking the wrong person, fella. I didn't do all that much."

"You…you found me, didn't you?"

"No, I was a few feet to the left. Trapper's the one who dug you out."

I stared up at him. Trapper. Trapper had saved my life. I owed my life, owed every breath, every heartbeat, to Trapper John McIntyre.

Hawkeye seemed not to notice my shock, and went on, "He went back to camp—we decided it was cruel to leave Potter with only Frank as company. But he was worried about you." The last sentence was said hopefully, as if Hawkeye half-doubted Trapper's concern—which was more than I could say for myself, since I doubted every inch of any concern Trapper professed over my well-being.

"I'll have to thank him when we get back," I said, carefully controlling my voice.

Hawkeye's face lit up—he'd probably been worried, still, that there was enmity between Trapper and I. He was no idiot, but he _could_ be fooled into believing something he wanted to believe bad enough. And he wanted very badly to believe that Trapper and I had made amends, that he could be friends with both of us without any trouble; so I smiled back at him, reassuringly, and gently squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, and I vowed (silently, of course) that I'd do anything—even if it meant being friendly to Trapper—to keep that glowing look on Hawkeye's face.

**TBC**


	21. Anything

Note: Still BJ POV. Just, you know…so you know…

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-One: Anything**

There was a chopper flying a patient—a kid Trapper had saved and apparently wanted to keep an eye on—over to the 4077th, and Hawkeye managed to persuade the pilot to take us with. Unfortunately, that meant one of us had to ride in the pod, and since I was the one with the wounds, I got the honor. It was…unpleasant. I wasn't claustrophobic, but my brief time spent underneath a building seemed to have left me wary of small spaces, and I was irrationally terrified that I was going to run out of air, even though the pod was open on both ends. This, of course, led to a small amount of hyperventilation, which, with my cracked ribs, practically had me screaming with pain. When we finally touched down and Hawkeye came to get me out, I scrambled off the stretched as fast as possible, rolling onto the ground with a painful thump and emptying my stomach. Hawkeye held on to my shoulders, as my left wrist threatened to give out beneath me and my chest exploded repeatedly in fiery pain; and when the retching stopped, he pulled me gently up to my feet—or foot, rather, since my right leg was temporarily out of action—and with the help of a corpsman dragged me into post-op. He gave me a quick once-over to make sure I hadn't done too much damage to myself during my brief panic-attack. And then he settled back in a chair next to my bed—I didn't even have to ask him to stay, I could see in his face that not even a stampede could make him leave. So with the mingled comforts of Hawkeye and painkillers, I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

* * *

When I woke up next, I turned my head immediately to look at Hawkeye—only to find his chair empty. "How're you feeling?" a voice asked from my other side, and I turned my head to see Trapper sitting on the bed next to mine, checking up on a patient. He was half-turned towards me, but most of his attention was on the kid whose arm he was bandaging. 

"Hawkeye said you found me," I said softly.

He nodded. "That's right."

"Thank you."

"I didn't do it for you," he said with a soft snort.

He arranged the kid's arm next to his body, and then turned to face me, his brown eyes intense. I met his stare, unflinching. "I know that. But you saved my life. And…I'd like to thank you for it, in some way."

He waved a hand dismissively. "That's not—"

"I'm serious, Trapper. Anything you want—if it's within my power, it's yours."

He opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it, a calculating look coming onto his face as he gazed at me, and I realized the morphine-induced word I'd just spoken: _Anything._ It was too late to take it back now.

"I'll…I'll have to think about that," he said softly, standing up. He looked at me steadily for a very long, interminably long, moment, and I could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes: _Anything._ And I already knew, with chilling certainty, what that _anything_ would be; and when he finally left, I squeezed my eyes shut and called myself a hundred different kinds of idiot.

* * *

**Trapper**

_Anything you want—if it's within my power, it's yours._ That's what he'd said. I'd seen in his eyes that he hadn't really meant to say it, but he _had_ said it, and I meant to take him up on it. There was only one thing I wanted from him, and that was for him to leave Hawkeye alone. Hawk'd been blinded by Hunnicutt's good looks, and he couldn't see what I saw: that even if Hell froze over, Hunnicutt wouldn't ever return Hawkeye's stupid "love," not in the way he wanted, and it'd break Hawk's heart. Hawkeye didn't see things or deal with things in the sorta way most normal people do, and even though he'd deny it and do everything to prove it wrong, he was a real emotional guy. If he gave a part of himself to anyone, it was theirs forever, and if that person broke the part of him they'd been given, it _stayed_ broken. Hawkeye wasn't the sorta guy you could fix—he was damaged goods, and hauling a baggage train a mile long, no question. Hunnicutt didn't understand that. Hawk'd end up giving his whole heart to Hunnicutt, and he'd end up stomping it all into the ground—maybe not on purpose, but that's what he'd do. He'd go back to his wife and baby girl, and leave Hawkeye behind, broken and forgotten. Hawkeye couldn't see that, but I could—so it was up to me to do something about it.

_Anything you want—if it's within my power, it's yours._

_Anything._

Hunnicutt could see it coming, too—that was the kicker. He knew what my _anything_ would be. _Give him up. Leave him alone. Stay the hell away from him._ He was probably trying right now to think if there was any way around it. He'd asked me a while ago _"Are you a man of your word?"_ He'd get those words thrown right back in his face if he tried to back out on it. He owed me his life, after all—he said so himself—so I figured it was a small price to pay for him to leave my best friend alone. Now I just had to figure out how to do it.

Hawkeye couldn't know. It'd only make him mad at me—maybe mad enough to break the part of himself he'd given me, and that was the last thing I wanted. So Hunnicutt would have to come up with an excuse, which shouldn't be too hard—he had that wife of his, after all, the one he'd promised to be faithful to. He could just tell Hawkeye he was having second thoughts about the whole thing, that he still loved his wife and didn't want to be disloyal to her. It wouldn't be too hard for him. It'd be a lot easier to do it now than after they'd got too attached.

I'd sent Hawkeye off to the mess tent, since he hadn't left Hunnicutt's side to eat or sleep since they'd got back, and I was thinking maybe I had some time right now to go talk to Hunnicutt, but just as I was walking towards the mess tent, Hawk came out with Hot-Lips and Potter, all of them smiling. They came over towards me and Hawk said, "Radar just got a call from a certain psychiatrist friend of ours who's got a week of nothing to do, and pockets _full_ of money to lose! He'll be coming down tomorrow night for a good old-fashioned Poker Night, so you'd better start collecting on some of those debts, 'cause I am _not_ loaning you any more money. I figure we can move Beej into the Swamp, he doesn't need to be in post-op anymore, and we can keep a better eye on him in the Swamp anyway, and he can still play cards—d'you have any idea how _lousy_ he is at poker?" He giggled happily, throwing his arm around my shoulders. "We'll have to find that table we used last time—you remember where we put it?"

"Not a clue," I said. It didn't pay to say more words than you had to when Hawkeye started on one of his long-winded rants.

"That's okay, we'll find it somewhere. We need chairs, too, and food—and booze! We need _lots_ of booze! And of course, we'll have to polish the rats and give the cockroaches a nice shine, can't have them looking like they do every other day…"

I let him ramble on, only really listening with one ear; and when he started heading towards post-op, I made an excuse not to go with him. It'd been a long time since I'd seen Hawk so…bubbly. So all-around happy. It would've been sickening if he wasn't my best friend. I knew it wasn't the idea of Poker Night that had him acting like this—it was goddamned Hunnicutt, which only went to prove my point. Hawk'd already given too much of himself to the guy, and he'd just keep giving and giving until he didn't have anything left to give, and then Hunnicutt would break it all.

I had to stop it, and now I could.

**TBC**

I now duck to avoid the objects thrown by all Trapper fans, and mumble a few words in my own defense: I'm not trying to make Trapper the villain, I'm just making him the overly-protective, slightly-misguided best friend.

And a brief note of clarification: Trapper does not—repeat DOES NOT—love Hawkeye, unless you want to go with brotherly love. As far as this fic is concerned, they're nothing more than as-close-as-brothers best friends (and occasional bed-buddies).


	22. War Games

Hawkeye's POV again—yay!

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Two: War Games**

I heard the jeep crunch through the fresh layer of ice and snow in the compound, and stuck my head out the door as the familiar figure climbed down from the jeep and stretched. "Sidney!" I called, and he turned to face me, smiling; I went out to shake his hand and grab his bags from the back of the jeep. "You'll have to bunk with us," I said apologetically. "A certain vertically-impaired, myopic, pre-pubescent corporal traded our VIP tent for a gallon of chocolate syrup."

Sidney laughed good-naturedly. "That's quite all right. I like the Swamp. I find it much more interesting to try to psychoanalyze you and Trapper than to try to psychoanalyze myself."

"Well, you'll have another brain to pick at now," I informed him, trying to open the door with my elbows. He took pity on me and reached around to do it himself. "Major Sidney Freedman, meet Captain BJ Hunnicutt, our local paperweight. Beej, this is the shrink."

"Strange, he looks normal-sized," BJ said, waving to the major. He was lying on his bunk, his left leg propped up on a pile of pillows while he read his newest medical journal. "I'd get up to shake your hand, but then I'd have to listen to Mother Hawkeye's scolding."

"Then I'll spare you," Sidney said with a smile, going over to shake BJ's hand. "If you don't mind my asking, Captain, what happened to you?"

"First of all, it's BJ—"

"Which stands for whatever you want it to," I interrupted in a disenchanted monotone. No matter how much I pestered him, he always said the B and the J didn't stand for anything—just a B and a J juxtaposed. I didn't believe him for a second.

He smiled at me briefly, then continued to Sidney, "—and I got caught in the middle of a disagreement between a building and a shell." Sidney winced sympathetically. "I don't want to offend you, Major—"

"Please, call me Sidney. And I'm _very_ hard to offend."

"Well, Sidney, I hope you're not using this Poker Night as a cover to come psychoanalyze me. 'Cause I'm perfectly fine."

Sidney glanced at me over BJ's head; I shrugged and made a face. Aside from his "episode" after the chopper ride, he'd been doing fine. Sidney smiled that reassuring smile of his and said, "I don't doubt that, BJ. To tell you the truth, I wasn't even aware you were here. I have no intention of psychoanalyzing you or anyone else here—this is my vacation."

"You come _here_ for vacation?" BJ asked with a skeptical laugh.

"Makes you think he's the one who needs to see a psychiatrist, doesn't it?" I said, pouring a round of martinis and passing them out.

Smiling, Sidney said innocently, "I like it here. This kind of insanity is refreshing."

Chuckling, I said, "Sidney, that's your bunk over there—we had to move the still to make room, I'll have you know. It had to lose ten pounds in order to squeeze itself into this corner, and it's informed me that it hates you."

"Give it my sincerest apologies—I would hate to offend such a good friend." He lifted his suitcase onto his cot, squeezed into the space between Trapper's bunk and mine, and then paused. "One question—why is there underwear on the pillow?"

Lifting his journal again, BJ said casually, "We were out of mints."

"I see. Remind me to stay at a different hotel next time I'm in town."

The door flew open and Trapper blew into the room, inflicting what looked like a painful hug upon poor Sidney. "I was just collecting all my debts," he said cheerfully, fanning out a nice wad of cash.

"Oh, good," I said. "I was just about to do the same. Pay up, Trap."

"Huh? No way, Joe—I paid you back weeks ago!"

"You—are you kidding me? You gave me an 'I owe you' to go with the first one you gave me five months ago!"

"Nuh-uh, I paid you back on payday. I gave you all my money!"

"And then you borrowed it right back to play poker that night—and lost it all!"

"To _you_!"

"Uh, sirs?" Radar said from beyond the door, and shuffled quickly inside, into the freezing cold of the Swamp as opposed to the sub-zero of the outside. "Colonel Potter wants to know when the big game's starting, so he can, uh, know when to come for the, you know…the big game."

"Weeeeell…" I said, looking around the room. "One, two, three, four here, plus you makes five—how many chairs do we have, Trap?"

"Nine."

"Okay, five out of nine accounted for means four left—"

"He's a real math whiz," BJ said to Sidney.

"Potter—one. Father Mulcahy—two. Klinger—what comes after two?"

"Four," Trapper provided.

"Right, and Margaret makes fifteen. Yup, all accounted for! Tell Potter to come on over, and round everyone else up on the way."

"Yessir!" Radar said cheerfully, with a salute so energetic it nearly knocked his glasses off. He scurried back outside, and Trapper, Sidney, and I set about the task of clearing an area large enough for nine people to play poker. Once we'd gotten the table and chairs set up, I went over to help half-drag BJ off his cot and into the most comfortable chair we'd been able to find. He had to sit turned slightly to the side, so that his left leg could be propped up on a stool out of the way. His position meant that whoever sat to his left would have to sit between his legs, so I turned martyr, sacrificing myself in order to spare someone else the awkwardness of having to sit in such a position—I certainly didn't feel awkward sitting there, but I noticed a certain redness to BJ's face that made me smile. Trapper sat on my other side, and Sidney seated himself on the other side of the table—no doubt, so he could easily observe the three most interesting things in the camp. The others arrived shortly after, and with an extravagant shuffle, I proclaimed, "Let the games begin!"

* * *

_AN: I feel somewhat cruel, switching POVs on you so often, but I thought it would be fun to do this part from Sydney's POV. So…that's what I'm doing. Thus:_**Sidney**

The game started off well, though the general atmosphere in the tent tonight was slightly different than it usually was, but I seemed to be the only one who could sense that—there was an underlying air of hostility, centered on Captains McIntyre and Hunnicutt. They were frequently the last two players in a given hand, and got involved in wild betting wars. I sensed a power struggle—though, admittedly, anyone with eyes could see that there was at least a little enmity between the two. They managed to hide it fairly well, at least for the beginning of the night. They were as light-hearted and cheerful as everyone else, excepting their almost outrageous one-upsmanship. Trapper, for once, seemed to be having a great deal of luck.

Grinning, he laid his cards out on the table, prompting Hawkeye to swear and throw his full house into Trapper's face. "Four two's!" Trapper announced proudly.

"How four-two-itous," BJ mumbled, and the table groaned. "Hey, you know what they say: 'A good pun is its own reword'." Another collective groan, louder this time, and BJ giggled gleefully. "What can I say, I'm an incorrigible punster—just don't incorrige me." Hawkeye threw the deck of cards at him. "Oh, come on, it's jest for pun!" A sudden desire for alcohol was experienced by all, and Hawkeye threatened to poke BJ's injured leg.

If there was enmity between Trapper and BJ, the opposite was true for Hawkeye and the new captain. If this had been my first visit to the 4077th, I might have guessed that BJ had been there just as long as the others; he fit seamlessly into the group, and fit particularly well with Hawkeye—an intellectual equal, a calmer, more tempered version of Hawkeye himself, the 'yin' to Hawkeye's 'yang'. The only hitch was Trapper…there was something, _something_, between BJ and Trapper, and I was beginning to guess what it was.

Margaret Houlihan was a new addition, too, to Poker Night, there by Hawkeye's invitation. The others seemed uncertain about her presence, slightly reserved, but it looked as though an unlikely friendship had sprung up between the regular-army major and the anything-but-regular captain. Frank Burns entered the tent at one point and started whimpering when he saw Margaret, who pointedly ignored him. _That's new,_ I thought with mild interest, watching as Burns desperately tried to subtly get Margaret's attention, even going so far as to pour himself a martini from the still and loudly express his disgust with it. When that failed, he slunk back to his cot and dug out his gun.

"Put that away, Frank!" Hawkeye snapped, glaring.

Margaret's eyes flickered towards the major for only a fraction of a second, but Frank had been watching for that. He wasn't about to stop anything that got the attention of his (former, I was assuming) lover.

BJ, still seeming to be in a good mood, said lightly, "Gun powder and alcohol don't mix, Frank. You can't shoot it, and it tastes awful."

Hawkeye turned to glare at his fellow captain. "I'm surprised your tongue hasn't turned black and fallen out yet."

"You're just jealous that I'm wittier than you are," BJ said, tossing his hair.

They continued their bantering and I smiled, reminded of why I'd come here. Strange, that you had to get closer to the war to get away from the war.

After it became apparent that Margaret was no longer interested in his gun, Frank crept back outside, prompting Hawkeye to announce, "Everyone leaves the world a little better—some by leaving."

"Some people cause happiness wherever they go," BJ agreed, "others _when_ever they go."

Margaret made a face. "You really shouldn't be so hard on him. He's not _all_ bad—he does have…_some_ value…"

"A person's true value depends entirely on what they are compared with," Hawkeye pointed out, and Margaret tried to hide a small smile. "Colonel, it's four dollars to you."

Potter, who looked half-asleep, shook himself and exclaimed, "Four dollars! That's— It's— Oh, hell, it's three in the morning, I don't care anymore."

Hawkeye, grinning, said, "It's not three yet, Colonel, you have to care for eight more minutes."

Glancing at his watch, BJ corrected tiredly, "Nine."

"Ten," Hawkeye countered.

"Eleven," I jumped in willingly.

"What?" BJ demanded, looking blankly from Hawkeye to me.

Innocently, Hawkeye said, "I thought we were betting."

If the night had ever been going uphill, it went downhill after that.

We were all tired, and most of us had had more alcohol than was adviseable; whenever someone suggested ending the game for the night, though, Trapper or BJ was quick to argue against it—they were still very much involved in their private battle. I'd lost all my money by then, and had no urge to indebt myself to any of them, so I leaned back to watch everything play out. Father Mulcahy left with his winnings before they became his losings, and Radar, yawning wide enough I was afraid he'd swallow his money, dragged himself and a sleepy Potter off to bed. Margaret, claiming to be disgusted by such competitiveness, left after handing out a few IOU's. Klinger skipped off to dress for his shift as guard—"Only a crazy person would wear _this_ on guard duty! My handbag would clash with my rifle!"—and all of Hawkeye's luck seemed to have shifted to Trapper.

"Oh, c'mon!" Trapper shouted when Hawkeye started to crawl under his blankets. "You gotta keep playing! It's still _early_!"

"Dawn is nature's way of telling you to go to bed!" Hawkeye's muffled voice came from under his pillow.

Trapper looked to me, a chummy smile spreading across his face. "Sidney…"

"No thank you," I said, returning the smile.

"Sounds like it's just me and thee," BJ said, his eyebrows raised at Trapper.

"You can't play poker with only two people!"

A small, humorless smile curved BJ's lips as he idly shuffled the deck. "Then why don't we play a different game?"

"Whaddya have in mind?" Trapper asked suspiciously.

"War. All or nothing."

They stared at each other for a very long time, something unspoken passing between them. Quite obviously, there was even more going on than was apparent at first glance.

I was intrigued. I was also quite sleepy, but I wasn't about to go to bed and miss something here.

"Deal," Trapper ordered.

As they started to play, I reminded myself that I was on vacation and as such, was _not_ a psychiatrist. I was nothing more than Major Sidney Freedman, weary visitor. But these two were practically _begging_ to be analyzed, to be picked apart piece by piece and carefully examined. The false camaraderie, the veiled insults, the general hostility—it was any psychiatrist's dream. I leaned forward, elbow on table and chin in hand, and asked, "Care to tell me what's wrong, boys?"

They both looked at me sharply, and then pasted identical forced grins on their faces. "Wrong?" Trapper repeated incredulously. "There's nothing _wrong_, is there, BJ?"

"Nothing at all. What would make you think that, Major?"

I leaned back again, clasping my hands over my stomach and smiling faintly. "Oh, nothing, nothing. I was just reminded of something that happened a long time ago—Billy Howard stole my apple in first grade, and we beat each other up."

"That's a lovely story, Sid," Trapper said sardonically, tapping his stack of cards against the table. "But this ain't first grade, and I don't see any apples."

"No? I do. Right there." I pointed at Hawkeye's bunk, where we could hear his soft snoring. "Which one of you stole it?"

They gaped at me, glanced at each other and at Hawkeye, and then BJ said pristinely, "I don't know what you're talking about."

With a chuckle, I decided not to press the matter and said, "Okay, but I'll warn you—you two are making complete asses of yourselves, and it's only a matter of time until he notices."

"That won't be a problem," Trapper said calmly, and I noticed that BJ's face turned a few shades whiter, and that his carefree mood all but evaporated.

Oh, Sigmund, if only you were here now… 

They waged their war, their piles of cards shrinking and growing in tides, and it seemed as though the game would never end—that they would remain here forever, the two of them, locked in mortal combat, fighting for a prize far greater than money (or so I had to believe). Though it was freezing cold in the tent, I could see sweat beading on BJ's brow, but I began to suspect that wasn't due to the intensity of the game—he ground his teeth together, his eyes narrowing occasionally to fight off a wince, his left hand clutched against the thigh of his wounded leg. He was in pain—I'd had enough med school to see that it was a great deal of pain.

I reached out to lightly touch his shoulder, and said softly, "BJ, should you be taking some painkillers?"

Trapper looked up sharply. "You haven't taken your meds?"

"I don't need them," BJ snapped. "I'm fine. We need to finish this game, then I'll take 'em."

"Hunnicutt, you have to—"

"All I have to do is finish this game!" he shouted, his voice cracking on the last word, his fingers closing convulsively on the edge of the table.

"Beej—" None of us had heard Hawkeye get up, but he was there suddenly, crouched next to BJ, fingers gently probing the injured man's leg. "If you'll recall, _I'm_ your doctor, which means I know what's best for you. I generously let you have some say in your treatment, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me before you make things worse. Bed. _Now_." He grabbed BJ's arm, but the patient pushed his doctor away.

"You don't understand!" BJ shouted, a note of desperation in his voice. Trapper slipped out of the tent, silently. "I _need_ to finish this game, it's almost over, I just need to finish it and then I'll swallow any pills you want me to. _Please_—" He clutched at Hawkeye's arm, his face a hectic red; something passed between the two of them, from blue eyes to blue eyes, something I couldn't even begin to comprehend. Then Trapper sidled back into the tent, one hand held casually behind his back; neither BJ nor Hawkeye seemed to notice him until he was crouched behind BJ's chair and had already inserted the needle through the layers of BJ's clothing into his rear end. BJ struggled briefly until the sedative took effect, and then the three of us managed to get him tucked into his bunk.

"What happened?" Hawkeye demanded of Trapper.

"Nothing!" Trapper exclaimed defensively. "We just—we were playing all or nothing, that's all."

"Then I guess you won," Hawkeye growled, climbing back into his own bed.

Trapper grumbled under his breath and grabbed his money off the table, leaving the pile of BJ's winnings untouched. "Trapper?" I questioned softly, and pointed when he turned to face me.

He met my eyes, steady, unflinching. "It wasn't about the money."

I returned the stare. "I know."

He snorted quietly, and then he, too, crawled into his bunk. There was nothing for me to do now but join the Swamprats in sleep.


	23. Into Darkness

Hawkeye's POV for the beginning, but then we're going to go back to Sidney's POV for an extended period—you'll see why.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Three: Into Darkness**

Radar shook me awake, whispering that we had some L.I.P.s and I was scheduled to be on duty now, so I was the one who had to see to them. I dragged myself out of bed and saw to a sprained ankle, a few minor lacerations, and—worst—the frostbitten toes of a couple of kids. So I was in a bit of a melancholy mood when I dragged myself back to the Swamp and found it, surprisingly, empty of all but BJ. All of the beds—except my own, of course—had been full of body parts when I'd left, and now BJ's was the only one to still be in that particular state of fullness. "Where'd everyone else go?" I asked, looking around a little forlornly.

BJ folded up his medical journal, looking strangely tense and pale. "Frank said something about supervising the transport of garbage, and Trapper took Sidney for a scenic tour of the cesspool."

"It is lovely this time of year. I was thinking of taking you there for a nice candlelit dinner." I sat down on my bunk and started rummaging beneath it, searching for another pair of socks; dealing with those kids' feet had left me twitchy. "Beej, do you have an extra—are you all right?" He'd gotten even paler, his eyes wide with that Radar-esque bunny-in-headlights look. I went over to him, crouched down next to his bunk, rested my hands lightly on his thigh. "Is it your leg?"

"No," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Beej," I said desperately, confused and worried and a little afraid. "What's wrong?"

"I—" He choked on the word, raked his knuckles furiously across his eyes, leaving the faint streaks of tears. "We can't do this anymore, Hawkeye."

"Do what?" I asked blankly.

"This!" He grabbed my hands off his leg and threw them away fiercely, off-balancing me and incidentally shoving me down onto my rear. I stared up at him, shocked; he turned his face away, eyes and jaw clenched tightly.

Softly, utterly and completely confused, I said, "Beej…?"

"_Don't call me that_!" He turned onto his side, facing away from me, his arms wrapped tightly around his ribs; I couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were shaking slightly, and his voice was thick when he said in an emotionless monotone, "I don't want…what you have to offer. It was a mistake. I led you on, and I'm sorry." His voice broke, and he whispered, tears in his voice, "So sorry…"

I pushed myself up off the floor, head spinning, _Auntie Em, oh, Auntie Em_, and clutched at the still table, hanging on to it for dear life lest the twister grab me and throw me any deeper into Oz. "BJ, j-just tell me what—what's wrong, we…we can—"

"Please, just leave me alone. I can't…" His voice rose suddenly, not quite a shout but loud enough to make me stumble backwards: "I don't want you, I don't need you! I don't need anything from you! I don't need your help, or your pity, or your— Just leave, leave me the hell alone!"

I staggered out of the Swamp, turning in circles, trying to keep up with the circles my head was turning, reeling blindly away, my feet leading me; I felt sick, my stomach churning, and I managed to stumble behind the latrines before I lost control and lost what little food I'd had, dropping to my knees and holding on desperately to the side of the building as I heaved, pressing my forehead against the cold wood, the tears coming now, as unstoppable, uncontrollable, as the retching, and I curled into a little ball against the latrine, my face in my hands, my whole body shaking as I sobbed, my head cracking open, the sound of it deafened only by the slow, painful shattering of my heart; I couldn't breath, there was something crushing against my chest, but I couldn't stop sobbing long enough to take a breath, and the sobs turned into desperate, frantic wheezing and whooping that caught the attention of a corpsman who told me to just breathe, Captain, breathe, and I wanted to laugh at him but I didn't have the breath for it, clutching my chest with one hand and my head with other, trying to hold both together as they became irreparably broken, impossible to fix, too damaged, much too damaged, no hope left so why bother hoping, why not just let them break, sit back and listen to the crash of the world crumbling down around me—

Hands on my shoulders, brown eyes, gentle voice, hands pulling me up, drawing me away, I could hardly place one foot in front of the other, but the hands were there, supporting, carrying; and then the hands were replaced by a shoulder, a shoulder to cry on, a shoulder to carry the world for me because it was too heavy, too crushingly huge, for me to bear on my own, I couldn't carry it when I couldn't even carry my own little world, my broken little world, shattered—

"I'm here, Hawk," Trapper whispered, hand on my back, hand on my head, holding, comforting, but it was the wrong voice, the wrong eyes, the wrong hands, BJ, _BJ_, and I _couldn't_—

I felt the gentle prick, but didn't really notice it until the threads of reality started to blur, the line between _here_ and _there_ becoming less distinct, and the darkness already bleeding into my brain and my heart swallowed the rest of me.

* * *

**Sidney**

Hawkeye had been sedated, and now everyone was looking at me, as if I knew any more than they did what had happened. I didn't know, but I meant to find out, and the best place to start was with Trapper. I pulled him aside and asked softly, "Do you have any idea what might have caused that?"

He shook his head helplessly, staring at his prone friend. "Sidney, I don't even know what that _was_. That—that's not Hawkeye, he…Hawk's not like that."

"If I had to guess," I said tentatively, "I would say what we saw was the tail end of a panic attack."

"A panic attack?" he repeated, looking at me sharply.

"That's my best guess."

"Caused by what?"

I smiled humorlessly. "That's what I'd like to find out. He was gone when the rest of us woke up this morning—do you know where he was?"

Trapper ran a hand back through his hair, watching Hawkeye out of the corners of his eyes. "Radar said some locals came in, and Hawk was scheduled for duty last night—we never really pay any attention to the duty roster on Poker Night, but if someone comes in the case goes to the surgeon on duty, so Radar came to get Hawkeye. I—I dunno what kinds of wounds they had or anything…all I know is he was still with 'em when I got up."

"I'll get to the bottom of this, Trapper," I said confidently, comfortingly. He nodded absently and went back to Hawkeye, and I went in search of Radar.

Unsurprisingly, I found him in his office, fiddling with the switchboard. "Oh, hi, Major Freedman," he said brightly. "Say, uh…what was that big ruckus over in post-op?"

"It was nothing—just a patient who got a little worked up. If you have the time, Radar, there are a few questions I'd like to ask you…"

"Oh, sure, sir!" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I'm not really doin' anything at all, it's just that the colonel don't like it if I don't _look_ like I'm not doin' what I'm not supposed to be doin'. But, uh, don't tell _him_ that. Sir."

"Your secret's safe with me, Radar." Largely because I didn't want to take the time to decipher it. "Now, you woke Hawkeye up early this morning?"

"Yeah, a few locals come in, needed to see a doctor, and Cap'n Pierce was on the roster."

"Do you know what any of the wounds were?"

"No, sir, I didn't hang around long. Blood makes me kinda oogy, ya know? But Lieutenant Callahan was the nurse on duty, she woulda helped Cap'n Pierce. But, uh, if you don't me askin', sir, why couldn't you just ask Cap'n Pierce about the wounded? Did he go missin' again?"

"_Again_?" I repeated.

"Yeah, well, uh…last week he kinda snuck off to Rosie's without no one knowin' and got real drunk—you know, from drinkin' too much—and no one knew where he was all day. Is that what happened again?"

"No, he…made his location well-known. Where can I find Lieutenant Callahan?"

"Probably in her tent right now, sir, she just come off her shift in post-op."

"Thank you, Radar," I said with a reassuring smile as I headed towards the door.

"Uh, sir—why're you askin' so many questions about Hawkeye? Is there…is there somethin' the matter with him?" There was worry in his voice—young, naïve Radar, who idolized Dr. Surgeon Captain Pierce, sir.

I sighed. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Sir?"

"Hawkeye was the ruckus in post-op—it would seem he's had a slight panic attack. He's fine now, sedated. There's nothing to worry about—he's going to be just fine. All I'm trying to do is find out what caused it."

He swallowed hard, going a few shades paler. "Is there anything I can do to help, sir?"

"If there's anything else you can do for me, Radar, I'll tell you, but you've already done me a great deal of help. The only thing we can do now is wait for him to wake up."

I went to see Nurse Callahan, who explained to me the cases she and Hawkeye had dealt with—nothing serious, the worst of it a few kids who'd had to have frostbitten toes removed. I knew from past experience that Hawkeye had a soft spot when it came to children, but removing toes didn't seem like the sort of thing that could cause such a breakdown. Hawkeye was tougher than that. Callahan said that Hawkeye hadn't seemed any different than usual when he'd left OR that morning, just tired—he'd said he was going to go back to the Swamp to sleep. That, then, was my next stop—if he'd gotten as far as the Swamp, BJ would know.

He was turned away from the door, sleeping, maybe. "BJ?" I called softly, to be sure he wasn't awake.

He jumped a little, twisted around to look at me. I blinked in surprise: his eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks raw. He'd been crying. He wiped furiously at his cheeks now, and asked gravelly, "What?"

"Are—is everything all right?"

"Fine, just _peachy_."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Frankly, I'd rather have each of my teeth pulled. Without an anesthetic." He turned back onto his side, away from me.

This was not the same man I'd played poker with last night. Or perhaps it _was_—just a more intense version of him, the side he'd shown when he'd been playing only against Trapper. I didn't know him well enough to judge. "I just came in to ask you if Hawkeye came back here this morning."

At the mention of the man's name, I saw BJ's whole body stiffen, and my eyebrows rose of their own accord. I suddenly got the sense I was getting closer to the cause of Hawkeye panic attack. BJ's voice was carefully controlled, neutral, when he said, "Yeah, he came in to get a pair of socks. Then he left."

"Did he…say anything to you? Anything at all?"

BJ turned onto his back, glaring at me. "Why the hell does it matter?"

I looked at him steadily. "He's had a panic attack. I'm trying to find out the reason for it."

His eyes widened, and his red and raw cheeks went pale. "He…he what?"

"Had a panic attack, or at least that's what we're assuming. Nausea, sweating, hyperventilation, what appeared to be extreme disorientation…"

BJ rubbed his hands over his face, looking shocked. He held a fist against his mouth, staring into the distance. "Is he all right?" he finally asked, softly.

"A nurse sedated him before he could do any damage to himself."

He squeezed his eyes shut, and even from this distance, I could see the tears gathering in the corners of them. "God…"

"Would you like to talk about it now?"

He shook his head helplessly. "I…I can't…"

"I need to know what caused his attack before I can help him, BJ."

"Ask Trapper," he said with a humorless laugh.

I could press him, but I didn't think he was going to tell me anything. There was certainly something to tell, but…he was holding it back. With luck, he would offer it willingly, at some other time. Until then, all I could do was murmur my thanks and offer, "I'm here, BJ, if you ever want to talk. About anything."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, his eyes closed again, pain—not of the physical variety—etched clearly on his face. The psychiatrist in me longed to reach out to him, to offer more help than that one hollow offer, but that same part of me knew that he wouldn't appreciate that. I sighed softly, and went to join Trapper in his vigil by Hawkeye's bedside, waiting for the man to wake up.


	24. Spiral

Sidney's POV for this chapter and the next one or two (depending on how long this section stretches out), and then we'll go back to Hawkeye's POV for what should be the rest of the fic.

Note: This chapter and the next few are angst-ridden. A veritable angst-fest. You've been warned.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Four: Spiral**

I talked to Sherman and asked him if there was somewhere we could move Hawkeye so that, when he woke up, I might be able to talk to him in privacy. He set Radar to work on getting an extra tent, pointedly mentioning how it would have been nice to have the VIP tent; and in the mean time, Margaret willingly offered up her tent, so Trapper and a corpsman hefted Hawkeye's limp body and carried him into Major Houlihan's tent. I allowed Trapper to stay, but asked everyone else to leave—I doubted that waking up to dozens of faces and inch from his would be good for whatever state Hawkeye's mind was in.

Trapper started pacing; I sat down, propping my foot up on a table, ready to wait for as long as it took. While we were waiting, though… "I went to talk to BJ—see if Hawkeye had gone back to the Swamp before he had his…attack."

"Oh yeah?"

"Hawkeye _had_ gone back there, but BJ wouldn't tell me what they talked about." I waited to see if he would bite; when he didn't, I went on, "He said I should ask you."

"Me?" His frown of confusion quickly shifted to one of anger, and he pounded his fist restlessly against his thigh as he continued to pace.

"Well?" I asked after a moment.

"Well what?" he snapped.

"Trapper, the more I know, the more I'll be able to help Hawkeye when he wakes up."

He shook his head firmly. "It's not for me to tell. If Hawkeye wants you to know, _he'll_ tell you."

"You're not making my job any easier," I said mildly, softening the words with a faint smile.

"Yeah, well, that's life."

We didn't say much after that.

The sedative began to wear off, Hawkeye tossing restlessly in the bed, groaning and mumbling. Trapper and I both moved closer, waiting with bated breath until his eyes finally opened; he blinked at us, and then promptly rolled onto his stomach, turning his face towards the wall.

"Hawk…"Trapper cajoled, "come on, we just wanna talk to you."

"I'd like to be alone," Hawkeye said softly. His voice was a dull monotone, devoid of emotion and inflection—the complete opposite of his usual voice.

I rested my fingers briefly on Trapper's arm, nodding towards the door; he didn't look happy about it, but he left, and I took my own turn at cajoling: "Hawkeye, it's Sidney. I've got big ears, a mouth with a zipper installed, and a willing shoulder. I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

"I'm not in the mood for talking."

"It might help." He didn't answer. "What about if I brought Trapper back in? Would you talk to him?" Silence, so I played my wild card. "What about BJ?"

His body went tense, the hand I could see curling into a fist. "No."

"You don't want to talk to BJ?" I asked with innocent surprise.

Again, "No."

"Why not? It seemed to me last night that the two of you were close."

"One would have thought."

"Did something change?"

He turned his head to look at me, his face blank, impassive; but his eyes flickered with life, emotion, and even though his voice was still faded and dull, I could hear the spark behind it, that particular tone and inflection that all but screamed _Hawkeye_. "Do you want to know what changed, Sidney? This place has finally done its damage on me. I've cracked. I'm so twisted up I've turned myself inside-out, and I'm staring inside me and there's nothing there. I'm empty."

The flat statement sent a chill up my spine, but I tried not to show it. "I can help you, Hawkeye. I _want_ to help you."

"There's nothing you can do. Like I said, I've cracked. My head's broken open and everything's leaking out even as we speak. Look, there goes second grade." His eyes, which had been glazed, vague, unseeing, now focused completely on me for the first time. I was pinned to my chair by the intensity of his gaze, the full force of his immense personality—now subdued, straining within the cage he'd packed it into—coming to bear on _me_; and I could see very clearly that there was something wrong, that something inside him _was_ broken, something so vital he couldn't function with it in its present state. He was no longer Hawkeye as I knew him, he was a shade of the man, a shell that physically resembled Hawkeye Pierce but was most certainly _not_ him. The impossible had happened—the pressure, the constant battle against Death, had finally broken him.

"I think I'm going insane," he whispered, his voice full of all the emotion he'd been holding back, eyes wide and desperate, begging me to prove him wrong, to tell him that he was still holding on to the tatters of his sanity and could pull himself back with a little hard work; but as I sat there, staring at the soul he willingly laid bare for my inspection, I could not guarantee that those words, were I to speak them, would be true. The darkness had closed over his head, and I wasn't sure I could reach deep enough to pull him back to the surface without drowning myself.

"How can I help you?" I asked softly, already knowing there was nothing, less than nothing, that I could do—he was the only one who could help himself, and all I could do was encourage him to do so. And I wasn't even sure I could do _that_.

He seemed not to hear my question, his eyes finally shifting away from me and focusing on something else, something only he could see. His voice was vague and dreamlike again when he spoke: "I can't see colors anymore. They're just…gone. It's all black and white. Maybe it was always like that." His voice drifted off, and I looked at him helplessly, wishing with all my being that there was something, _anything_, I could do… And then his gaze swung back to me, his lower lip trembling slightly, his eyes full of a pain I prayed I would never feel. "Sidney…I—I can't—I don't _feel_ anything. I'm—I'm numb, there's nothing left inside me…" He tilted his head down, pressing it against the pillow, lifting one of his hands to wipe futilely at the tears creeping slowly down his cheeks.

"You're not numb, Hawkeye," I said softly, hopefully, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "People who are numb don't cry. If anything, you feel _too much_. You care for all the world, every single person on this planet, irregardless of sex, race, creed, and any other label others would put on them. Not even you can carry the whole world and not be affected by it. Just…lay it aside for a little while. Work on fixing your own world."

He looked up at me, despair in his eyes and a smile on his lips. "Would that I could, but I have the sense I'm broken beyond repair." He turned his face away, towards the wall again, shutting me out as effectively as if he'd built a hundred-foot-tall brick wall around himself. His voice went back to that dull un-Hawkeye monotone: "You're wasting your time. I'd like to be alone now, please."

I scrubbed my hand across my face and rose slowly to my feet, staring down at his motionless form. I touched my fingers briefly against his shoulder; he was unresponsive. With a sense of hopelessness to match what I'd seen in his eyes, I left the tent, my hands shoved deep into my pockets and my head hanging. Trapper grabbed my arm almost before I'd gotten one foot out the door, but I couldn't hear his voice, or maybe it was that I just didn't want to hear; I told him to make sure someone stayed with Hawkeye and then I walked, aimlessly, with only my grim thoughts for company.

Hawkeye had always seemed invincible—not unaffected by the war, but able to overcome the things that affected him, always able to triumph over the cruelty of the whole affair, to seek refuge behind his jokes and his small, controlled insanities; but now it had broken him, and if it could break Hawkeye, who could possibly stand before it? Once the strongest had fallen, the others were quick to follow.

The worst was not knowing what had caused his breakdown—how could you fight something you couldn't see?

**TBC**

* * *

AN: And now, I'd like to take a quick poll. I've had an idea that would, if used, extend this fic to some 50 or so chapters. _Long_, yes. My concern is losing reader interest, so I now poll you, the reader. Would, say, 53 chapters be too long for this already epic-length fic? If no, then I've got some real fun planned, including a lovely conclusion in which all the loose ends are tied up; if yes, then I'll find a different way to wrap everything up. I value reader opinion—so give it to me! 


	25. Drowning

Thank you all for participating in my little "poll" and for your wonderfully overwhelming support; I'm going to put my idea into action, and I'll explain it to you once we get there (which will be in a few more chapters).

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Five: Drowning **

I closed my eyes, the hopelessness threatening to overwhelm me. I thought I'd had it under control, but this latest news… "How did it happen?" I asked softly.

Trapper looked utterly miserable, facing the wall of Sherman's office and holding tightly onto it as if he were about to fall, his forehead pressed against the wood. He turned his head in order to look at me, his face pale and drawn, eyes reddened. "I left for a minute, just a fucking minute—I had to use the latrine. Klinger was outside the door the whole time. Margaret musta…" He had to pause, take a deep, calming breath. "She musta left some of her peroxide layin' around, and he got his hands on it. Klinger heard him, but…" He turned his face back to the wall.

"Is he stable now?"

"He didn't ingest enough of it to do any serious damage," Sherman said from behind his desk, holding his head in his hands, "and it was diluted. Shouldn't be any lasting effects—at least," he added with a pointed look at me, "none that we can fix."

They'd done what they could—the rest of it fell to me. Wonderful. "Is he awake?"

"He should be by now. Radar got his hands on a tent, so we moved Hawkeye in there—nothing in it but the bed, but…I had them put restraints on him." This said with an apologetic look at Trapper's back, but the captain seemed to be absorbed in boring a hole through the wall with his eyes—if he stared hard enough, maybe he'd be able to see through it, to the tent where Hawkeye lay now, restrained and under guard, riding out the aftereffects of peroxide poisoning, alone.

I sighed, pushing myself away from the table I'd been leaning on, and started for the door. "Then I'd best go talk to him."

"You want me to come with you?" Trapper asked softly, hopefully—though whether he hoped I'd refuse or accept, I wasn't sure.

"No, I think it'd be best if I went alone. I think you might…exacerbate the situation." He looked like he was going to get angry, so I explained quickly, "You're too close to him, Trapper. You can't handle anything related to Hawkeye dispassionately. And I have the feeling he won't tell me anything unless we're alone—you know how he likes his secrets."

He nodded absently, and didn't argue. That was good—I wanted to save all my arguing for Hawkeye. I turned to Sherman, asked him softly if anyone had told BJ; he shook his head grimly, and I asked him not to do so yet, and to keep anyone who might tell him away—I wanted to be the one to tell BJ.

There was nothing, now, to keep me from going to Hawkeye.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to look into his eyes again, the eyes of a friend, and see someone I didn't know, someone I didn't _want_ to know. I didn't want to hear his list of reasons for downing the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, the litany of ways the world would be better off if he weren't in it; didn't want to have to refute each of those ways, to take him through an _It's a Wonderful Life_-like scenario, to engage in endless philosophical discussions until my head ached and I was left with my own desire to down some peroxide just to escape the melancholy that always tailed after Hawkeye. I didn't want to know what was so terrible that it could break such a strong, vibrant spirit as Hawkeye's, because then _I_ would have to face it, look at it and not allow myself to be broken; and I wasn't sure I was strong enough to face it. I didn't want to go. I had to go.

He was lying in the exact center of the big VIP bed, arms spread slightly to accommodate the restraints around his wrists, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't move when I entered and walked to the wooden chair that had been placed at the side of the bed, but he said softly, "I'm playing connect-the-dots with the flies on the ceiling. So far I've made a bunny and Santa Clause."

"Why did you do it, Hawkeye?" I asked softly, reasonably.

"Because there aren't enough of them to make a naked woman." He turned his head to look at me, his mouth smiling but his eyes blank. "Oh, you mean why the other thing?" I nodded, and he turned his face back up to the ceiling. "You gave me the idea for it. You said I should just put the whole world aside and work on fixing mine. So I did."

"You wanted to fix it with hydrogen peroxide?"

"To each his own."

I stared at him for a long time, at the man who looked like Hawkeye and even tried to sound and act like him, but was _not_ Hawkeye in so many ways, too many to count. Finally, softly, I asked, "What changed, Hawkeye? What happened?"

"Sidney, I'm past caring. I told you, I'm cracked. Broken. Numb. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters to me."

He turned towards me again, surprise flickering across his face. "Why?" he asked blankly, sounding patently confused.

I almost smiled at the innocent, childlike confusion. "I, like many people in this camp alone, happen to care about you. I have a vested interest in seeing that you remain in this world, because your very _life_ makes the world a little brighter. You give hope to these hopeless people just by _living_. Can't you see that?"

Eyes back up to the ceiling, but I could see them filling slowly with tears. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"_Why_? Tell me why, Hawkeye. Please." I didn't tell him that if I knew what was wrong, I would be able to help him—until I was sure that statement was true, I wasn't going to say it.

His eyes closed, and he bit his lower lip, pain in every line of his body—he was not unfeeling, far from it. He just couldn't handle the strength of what he _was_ feeling. "It hurts," he whimpered.

"What does?"

"_I_ do. Everything hurts, and I just can't take it anymore." A tear slipped down into his hair. "It hurts too much. I—I feel like I'm drowning, and…I can, I can see the surface, I can see the sun above me, and I know that if I kick my legs I can break free, but there's…there's something around my legs and it's pulling me down, and I can't fight it, I—my arms don't work, and it's dragging me down deeper and deeper—" A ragged sob burst from him, the tears flowing freely. "God, Sidney—I'm losing my mind, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

"You _can_ do something, Hawkeye—you have to. I'll help you if I can, but…you have to help yourself."

He was sobbing softly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I can't—I _can't_!"

"Why?"

A whisper, a frightened child: "I'm scared."

I reached out to wrap my fingers around his, and he responded with a crushing grip, a drowning man who's sensed his salvation. "I'm here, Hawkeye. Let me help you."

He nodded jerkily, took a moment to compose himself; I busied myself loosening his restraints—I needed him to trust me, and that was impossible while he was tied down like a wild animal. He rubbed distractedly at his wrists as I sat back down, and then turned to look at me. "If I tell you," he whispered, eyes wide and scared, but I could see in them that he trusted me, "you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"I specialize in secrets."

He rearranged himself to a more comfortable position, sitting up straighter, avoiding my eyes. He finally glanced at me and murmured, "It's big, Sidney. Bad."

"I'm not here to pass judgement."

"Right," he said with a nod that was probably meant to bolster his courage. He closed his eyes again, tilting his head back against the pillows. "BJ…" A chocked noise came from his throat.

"Is it about BJ?" I asked gently.

A wry laugh. "It's _all_ about BJ."

"Tell me," I encouraged.

"I…" A pause, and then the words came in a rush: "I love him. _Loved_ him."

It really wasn't as surprising as it should have been. I'd seen much stranger things, and if it was true what they said—that politics make strange bedfellows—one could argue that war was the greatest of politics.

He'd opened his eyes to look at me, anticipating the judgement I'd promised not to pass, the condemnation, the disgust. But I only nodded in understanding, and it encouraged him to go on.

"I was stupid enough to…to tell him, and stupid enough to believe when he said my stupid feelings were reciprocated. Romantic that I am, I started thinking—you know, about what it'd be like after the war. He's married and he has a kid, but…I just, I got this picture in my head, of a little house in Crabapple Cove, near the ocean so we could watch the sun rise…a big yard, with a little stream or a pond…a dog for him and a cat for me…"

"That sounds nice," I said sincerely, almost made hopeful at the dreamy contentedness in his voice. That vanished quickly enough, though, as did the small, genuine smile that had curved his lips.

"But it seems the shell knocked some sense into him, since he's decided it was all a mistake. He no longer wishes to see me. Thus, I am bereft, empty, and uncaring enough to want a way out, and swallowing peroxide was the most easily available way to achieve that."

"But it didn't work," I said softly.

A grim smile passed across his face. "No. It didn't. So here I am, bereft, empty, broken, numb, and with stomach pains. It's amazing what medicine can do these days, but—unless I'm mistaken, and, please, tell me if I am, I hope to God I am—there's no medicine to fix a broken heart." He rubbed at his face, laughing hollowly. "I sound like a teenage girl who's been dumped for the first time." He turned his eyes to me. "Well, go on. Tell me it'll pass. Tell me it won't hurt as much as time goes by. I'll get over it, I just have to ride it out now. There are plenty of other fish in the sea. Tell me it wouldn't've worked anyway—against God's will, after all, Sodom and Gomorrah and all that. Degeneracy. Perversion." Eyes back to the ceiling, and a painful swallow. "I can't feel it now, Sidney…right now, it doesn't hurt. But it will, and…I know I won't be able to handle it once it starts hurting again. I…I can't face it, Sidney. I'm not strong enough."

"I'll help you through it, Hawkeye," I promised, taking his hand again. He was the sort of person that needed human contact to remind him that he was real, that life wasn't all just a nightmare. "Just tell me what to do."

He turned his face back to me. "I…need to know why," he whispered.

"I'll go talk to him now." I paused. "Unless you want me to stay…?"

"No," he murmured, shaking his head. "I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to send Trapper in? He'd like to see you."

He turned his face away. "No. I…I can't face him yet. Not yet."

I stood up and rested my hand on his shoulder, said softly, "You're stronger than you think, Hawkeye."

He smiled weakly. "If you say so." He crossed his arms over his stomach and closed his eyes, the brief glimpse of the "normal" Hawkeye gone, leaving its grim, unfamiliar shadow in its place.


	26. Need

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Six: Need**

Luckily for me, BJ was the only one in the Swamp again—Sherman had assigned Burns to post-op, since he was the only surgeon who wasn't at present physically or emotionally handicapped (though that was arguable, as Trapper had pointed out), and Trapper was probably still with Sherman. BJ was laying on his cot and reading, but looked up from the journal when I said, "Are you busy, BJ? I'd like to talk with you again."

"Oh, so _some_one finally _wants_ to talk to me! What's going on Sidney? No one will tell me anything, they just get pale and panicky—"

"There's been a small problem," I interrupted calmly.

"A problem?" he repeated. "What kind of problem?"

"One of the Hawkeye variety."

"Hawkeye? What happened?"

"He decided the world would be a better place without him in it."

BJ blanched, eyes widening and face going pale. "He…oh, God—is he all right?"

"He's fine now, physically. Mentally and emotionally…not so much."

He scrubbed his face with his hands, and I felt a brief stab of guilt—there were kinder ways to tell a person his friend had tried to kill himself, but I needed an emotional reaction from him now, wanted to shock him into confirming Hawkeye's story and giving his own version of it. There were tears in his voice when he whispered, "How did…what…?"

"We put him in Major Houlihan's tent, for privacy; he found some of her peroxide, but he didn't swallow enough to do any serious damage. I've convinced him, for now at least, that his life is worth living, and he decided to confide in me."

BJ looked up at me. "He told you?"

"He did. I thought I'd come get your side of it before I made any judgements. Whatever you tell me, I will repeat to no one—unless it will help me help Hawkeye."

"I don't like psychiatrists," he said softly, staring up at the ceiling.

"I get that a lot."

He was silent for a long time, but I waited patiently; I knew he would tell me, he was probably just trying to decide where to begin. And he finally did: "I have a wife. A baby—she's just barely six months old. I love them both. But Hawkeye…he's different than any other person I've ever met. He's…"

He looked like he was struggling for the right word, so I suggested, "Extraordinary?"

"Incredible. Astonishing. Unprecedented. I…I care about him more deeply than I've ever cared for any other person or thing, Peg and Erin included." He looked at me, meeting my eyes, daring me to mock him, anticipating the same judgement Hawkeye had. Unblinking, he said with the most conviction I'd ever heard in my life, "I love him."

"Then why did you push him away?" I asked softly, and he looked away from me, his cheeks reddening.

"I had to."

"You had to?" I repeated.

"I owed a debt to someone. That was the price. 'Stay away from him'. So I did. I am. I hate it, but…what choice do I have?"

"Trapper?"

He knuckled his eyes, his despair evident. "He saved my life. I was buried, pinned down, no way out, bleeding, probably getting low on air; he found me. I owe my life to him, and I promised to pay him back. He never liked me—I think he felt like I was taking Hawkeye away from him or something. He thinks I'll just abandon Hawkeye after this damn war's over, and leave him heartbroken—so, to avoid that, he decided it would be best if I broke Hawk's heart _now_, before we'd become 'too attached'."

"Are you?" I asked. "Going to leave him after the war?"

He looked aghast. "No."

"What about your wife and baby?"

"Hawkeye matters more to me than they do."

"Then can I point out where you made a mistake?" He waved his hand vaguely in permission. "By telling him that you no longer wished to see him, I think you may have lead him to believe you hated him."

He sneered. "You must've had to take a _lot_ of college to figure _that_ out. What else could I have done, Sidney? I owe Trapper my life, and I'm a man of my word."

I raised my eyebrows slightly. "That begs the question: if you're a man of your word—and I truly mean no offense, BJ—what about the vows you made to your wife? If you truly wished to remain with Hawkeye after the war, what were you planning to do about your marriage?"

"I…I never really thought about it. I didn't _want_ to think about it." But he _was_ thinking about it now, I could see that in his face. "I've been over here about four months, and I've survived without Peg for all that time. I can function when I'm not around her, I don't _need_ her presence constantly. But Hawkeye…" He met my eyes. "I don't think I could live without him."

"I would suggest you tell him that before he decides you _can_ live without him."

"Trapper…?"

"I'll talk to him. Maybe I can help him to think of a better way for you to pay your debt."

I helped BJ up to his feet and steadied him on his crutches, walking with him to the VIP tent. Trapper was hovering nearby, and I stepped between the two of them before they could start so much as a staring contest. I myself looked significantly at Trapper, hoping to convey whatever it was I was trying to convey, and then opened the door for BJ, who limped slowly inside.

Hawkeye hadn't moved since I'd left him, and he didn't bother opening his eyes to ask dully, "Well?"

"I brought something for you," I said. "I know it's a little early, but consider it my Christmas present to you."

Voice thick, BJ whispered, "Hawkeye."

His eyes flew open, and I think he nearly sprained something as he hastily scrambled to his knees in the center of the bed, gaping; BJ lifted an arm, fingers reaching out towards Hawkeye; and the man flinched as if he'd been struck and scuttled backwards, over the edge of the bed to sit against the far wall, wide, terrified eyes dominating his pale face. BJ looked like a man tortured, his arm dropping back to his side as he bit his lower lip.

I decided it was probably time to intervene. I went over and crouched down next to Hawkeye, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Talk to him, Hawkeye," I whispered, so only he could hear me. "Tell him what you told me, and listen to him."

He clutched frantically at my arm as I started to rise. "Don't leave—"

"You'll be fine, Hawkeye. You're stronger than you think you are." His fingers slipped from my arm and I walked back to BJ, repeating the words I'd said to Hawkeye: "Tell him what you told me, and listen to him. You may have to be the first one to talk. Have faith in your feelings." And before he could protest my leaving, I slipped out the door.

Trapper was there instantly, demanding, "What's going on?"

I spoke briefly to the two guards outside the tent, told them that their services were no longer necessary; then I turned to Trapper and calmly explained, "I'm trying to fix the damage."

"How come you wouldn't let me see him, but you'll let Hunnicutt?"

I tilted my head at him slightly. "You didn't do the damage," I lied. "Hawkeye needed to see the one who did."

There it was—guilt, seen clearly in the way he averted his eyes, and the faint blush creeping up his neck. "Yeah, well…"

"If Hawkeye is going to make it through this, he'll need faithful, caring friends at his side, people he can count on. _You_."

He stared hard at me for a minute, then grimaced. "Hunnicutt told you."

"He did," I agreed with a nod. Our relative silence was interrupted by a crash from inside the VIP tent, and the distinct sound of sobbing; Trapper had started for the door, but I grabbed his arm, holding him back. "They'll be fine," I said confidently. "It's _you_ I'm worried about right now."

"Me?" he repeated distractedly, staring over my shoulder at the tent.

With a sigh, I grabbed his arm again and pulled him away from the tent, outside the official boundaries of the camp where we might have some privacy. There, with Trapper relatively free from distraction, I asked him, "Did you really think it would work? That Hawkeye wouldn't be hurt by it?"

"I thought—it was just a stupid little crush. Hunnicutt was leading him on. Yeah, I knew it'd hurt Hawkeye, but it'd of hurt him more if it'd gone on for longer. I was doin' him a favor."

He believed that to be true, and I couldn't really blame him. It was hard to lose a best friend (or to feel as though you were losing one), especially in this place where we all needed human connections to keep us sane. He saw it as BJ stealing Hawkeye from him, and manufactured a reason to justify separating them. He was a victim as much as the other two. "They need each other, Trapper," I said softly. "Hawkeye was ready to kill himself because he thought he'd lost BJ. BJ more or less told me that he would willingly leave his wife and child for Hawkeye." He seemed shocked by that, but the shock quickly dissolved into a refusal to believe—he wouldn't believe it as truth until he heard it from Hawkeye's mouth. That was fair. "Which brings us to what I wanted to talk to you about. BJ feels obligated to pay his debt to you, which will prevent him from helping with Hawkeye's healing process. I won't delude you—it's my belief that if they're not allowed to…develop, Hawkeye will attempt to kill himself again. I was hoping you and I could think of a different way in which BJ could repay you for his life."

Trapper turned away from me, his shoulders hunched—against the cold, maybe, but I didn't think so. "So you're saying Hawk doesn't need me anymore. He's got BJ, so all I have to do is step back and let them do what they want."

"That is _not_ what I'm saying. You're Hawkeye's rock—you keep him grounded, and he needs that more than anything right now. BJ can't replace you, he just…fills a spot that you can't, just as you fill spots he can't. Hawkeye needs both of you, different parts of both of you. He needs to be able to love BJ, and to know that he can lean on you if anything ever goes wrong. Can you understand that?"

"I never liked sharing as a kid," he mumbled. "That's probably got some deep psychological meaning, right?"

I shrugged, smiling faintly. "Sexual repression, most likely, or something else sex-related. Everything's about sex."

"Don't I know it." He sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his mittened hands. "It feels like I'm giving up. Like I've lost."

"If you want my professional opinion, this battle between yourself and BJ seems to have become more about the competition itself than about the 'prize'." He opened his mouth, as if to argue that he hadn't been treating Hawkeye like a prize to be won; but he thought better of it, and grimaced instead, nodded reluctantly. "You're both extremely competitive, neither of you wanting to give up. So, we must find a solution that will satisfy the needs of everyone involved."

"He doesn't need to 'pay me back'. The day I found him, I was sure he was either dead or AWOL; I only looked for him because Hawkeye wouldn't've been satisfied 'til he saw Hunnicutt's body, and wouldn't've forgiven me if I hadn't helped him. Hunnicutt doesn't owe me anything."

"Make sure you tell him that. I'm going to want to talk to the both of you, together and separately, once we get the Hawkeye situation resolved."

"Yeah, I figured." He tilted his head slightly at me, a small smile forming. "D'you ever have a boring day, Sidney?"

I laughed. "Not when I'm here."

* * *

**Hawkeye**

"Talk to him, Hawkeye. Tell him what you told me, and listen to him," Sidney whispered, and started to get up; I grabbed his arm, my mind babbling frantically, and begged him not to leave, please, don't leave me alone with him, I can't— "You'll be fine, Hawkeye. You're stronger than you think you are."

Was I? Was I really? Since when? I, personally, thought I was about as strong as a tiny little turtle lying on its back, but Sidney seemed to think otherwise. That was silly of him.

He went to whisper something to BJ—BJ, who I couldn't even look at without feeling like my heart was encircled by a noose—and then he was gone, and we were alone, and what was left of my mind was trying to claw its way out from the inside, and I pulled my knees up to my chest and curled into the fetal position—it was the way we all started out, it seemed appropriate that I end this way, too, since my whole world was ending. He was coming towards me, slowly, painfully, and some part of my mind was screaming that he shouldn't be on crutches yet, he should still have people half-carrying him, or at least someone to support him, catch him if he fell… And then he did fall, was falling, but I wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, since he landed on his uninjured right side, next to me, and scrabbled frantically to grab one of my hands in both of his, whispering my name until I finally convinced myself that I could look at him without my chest collapsing in upon itself. My eyes met his, and I saw the tears there, realized there were tears in my own eyes, and I felt myself melting just like I always did when I saw those eyes, and I looked away, feeling lost, confused, angry… Fingers brushed against the side of my face, pushing my hair back, running down my cheek, and a hitching sob broke out of my chest, followed an instant later by the whole spectrum of human emotion, bursting out of me like some hideous creature, and I threw myself at him, crushing our mouths together and then shoving him back onto the floor, jumping to my feet and flinging myself away, grabbing the chair and methodically smashing it against the floor, and then crumpling down to the ground, despair clawing at my stomach, and I felt like I was going to be sick if there'd been anything to empty from my stomach, so I made up for it by curling into a ball and sobbing, sobbing like I'd never sobbed before, all the emotion draining away, and I was sure it would leave me emptier than before, completely hollow, sinking deeper and deeper into the blackness, into the madness, but hands grabbed my head and I broke free, broke through the surface and pulled in a gasping breath, clutching at the hands, the arms, the chest that held me, saved me, kept me from sinking back down, pulled me into the protective circle of strong arms and whispered "I'm so sorry"s and lips against my hair and hands holding me tightly with the promise of never letting go, holding the darkness at bay, pushing it farther and farther back until it was little more than a memory, a bad dream, and all that mattered were the lips moving slowly over my face and whispering, "I love you…"


	27. Pulse

Hawkeye's POV now, and probably for the rest of the fic.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Seven: Pulse**

"What are you doing?" I whispered, wanting to pull away, but my body had molded itself around his and decided never to move.

"Let's say I suffered from a brief separation of my brain and my mouth. I wasn't thinking, and I regret it all…" A thumb brushing away the faint wetness on my cheeks. "…regret that I hurt you…"

It would be so easy, _so_ easy, to smile and say okay, that was good enough, you're here now and that's all that matters; but a big part of me—perhaps wisely—had stopped trusting him by the time we'd come to "just leave me the hell alone" in our last conversation. So I forced my reluctant body away, put a few feet between us, and found that I was able to meet his eyes. I didn't need to say anything; he seemed to know that he wasn't going to get out that easily.

He rubbed his hands over his face, sighing. "I realized that you were expecting…a lot from me. And I wasn't sure I could give it all to you. I…panicked." He seemed vaguely ashamed by this explanation, but he wasn't done yet. "But I've had plenty of time to think about it, and I was wrong." Tentatively, he reached out and wrapped his hands around one of mine; encouraged when I didn't pull away, he went on, "Hawkeye, I want to give you everything. It…it sounds stupid, I know, but…everything I have, every piece of me is yours. I—I don't think I could live if I didn't have you—I don't know how I lived before I met you. I need you, and…I love you. More than anything else in this world."

Oh, that was _good_. It made my stomach turn over happily, which sent the butterflies to fluttering around, which in no way helped my conviction that I shouldn't just throw myself at him right now. I reminded myself that I'd given him everything, and he'd broken it all. He would have to do a little better than that if he wanted my trust back.

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held onto it tightly with his right hand, lifting the left one up run the backs of his fingers down the side of my face. That nearly undid me; I fought the urge to collapse against him again, held onto Sidney's words: _You're stronger than you think you are._ Okay. Now I just had to prove it.

I had to swallow hard a few times before I could talk, and even then I had to avoid meeting his eyes. "I…I can't trust you anymore, BJ. I want to…but I can't. You…you ruined that."

"I know," he said softly, and it was probably only my desperate hopefulness, but I convinced myself I heard something in his voice that matched something inside me, something that started a faint echoing in the emptiness inside my chest, a slow _th…u…mp…………th…u…mp…_ And I had to close my eyes against the stupid tears that threatened to spill over, because—apparently—each minute that passed turned me more and more into a melodramatic, overemotional teenage girl.

_There's no medicine to fix a broken heart_, I'd said to Sidney. I was almost getting used to being wrong, because here was the cure, sitting in front of me and holding my hand, stroking my cheek; here was the only sort of medicine I'd ever need, the cure-all fix, the elixir of life; and how easy it would be to lean forward, to bring our mouths together and drink deep, let him heal the gaping wound in my chest, patch up the pieces of my broken heart, to curl against his chest and wrap my hands in his shirt and never let go. It would be so easy, and I wanted it so badly it physically _hurt_ not to…

"I love you," he whispered, a sort of fierceness in his voice, as if he could pound acceptance into me, _make_ me believe him, but his hand on my face was still gentle, rubbing away the tears I was powerless to stop.

I forced my eyes open, saw that his cheeks, too, were wet with tears, and I wanted to reach out to brush them away, with hands and mouth, to erase the pain in his eyes because then maybe my own pain would go away. "I know. But that's not enough."

There was a certain desperation to his voice when he said, "Whatever you want, Hawkeye, it's yours. I'll do anything for you." He gave a choked laugh. " 'You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.' " That was enough to startle a laugh out of me, and I saw hope light up his eyes. "I—I'll leave Peg when this whole stupid war is over, come stay with you, it's—I've been thinking about that for a while, I was going to tell you before—before all this. You matter more to me than she does, more than anything else. You're all that matters."

Commitment. I hadn't been expecting that. _…a little house in Crabapple Cove, near the ocean so we could watch the sun rise…a big yard, with a little stream or a pond…a dog for him and a cat for me…_ My secret fantasy, now given the hope of turning into reality. It was unexpected.

And it was enough.

I pulled my hand out of his and reached out, slowly, tentatively resting my hand against his chest; he lifted his hand to cover it, his Adam's apple bobbing as his other hand slid around to the back of my neck—not pulling, not demanding, but encouraging and waiting patiently until I leaned in. Every centimeter that vanished between us pulled a little piece of me from the emptiness in my chest, made something whole out of nothingness, a strong, firm _thump-thump_ that vibrated through my whole body, sang through my veins and sent shocks down my nerves, made the butterflies do a little happy-dance; and then my lips brushed against his and my chest exploded, my restored heart beating hard enough that I began to be afraid it would pound its way out of my chest.

It was a short kiss, but we clung to each other afterwards, my head on his shoulder and my hands knotted in his shirt, his arms wrapped tightly around me and his face pressed against my head. Everything wasn't completely fixed yet—there was still a lot we needed to talk about—but we'd made the first step.

* * *

We'd moved onto the bed to convenience his leg, which left him stretched out on his back and me curled up against his side, our arms around each other and our heads leaning together. I heard the door open and panicked briefly, _this is it, it's over, here come the blue discharge papers_, but it was only Sidney. He blinked in faint surprise, and then smiled. "Now _that's_ more like it," he said mildly. "Things all better?" 

BJ and I looked at each other, and I said softly, "No. But we're getting there."

"Good. We'll work on that later. Now, however, there is someone who's been waiting to see you, Hawkeye. BJ, if you could come with me…"

I tightened my arms around him—now that I'd gotten him back, I had no intention of letting him go, ever again; his own arms tightened briefly, and he pressed his mouth against my ear to whisper, "I'll be back, Ben. I won't leave you."

_Ben,_ I thought giddily as Sidney helped him up off the bed. _Since when does he call me Ben?_ I liked it.

I'd just started to look forlornly at the closed door when it opened again and in stepped Trapper. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and he looked a little uncomfortable, but he managed a smile and a soft, "Hey."

"Hey," I said back, and waited just as uncomfortably.

He glanced at the smashed chair and smiled faintly, then looked back up at me. "I, uh…don't suppose you got room in there for me?"

I shuffled over to the far side of the bed and patted the other side invitingly; and we stretched out next to each other, staring up at the ceiling, our shoulders pressing comfortably together. Inexplicably, I felt tears pricking my eyes. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"You scared me, Hawk. You scared everyone."

"I know. It…seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Doesn't it always? Listen, how many times've I told you—you got a problem, come talk to me about it. I got an honest face, and anything you've done, I've done it twice or worse."

That startled a laugh out of me, and I reached out to wrap my hand around his; he squeezed back. We'd never been much for public affection (unless it was the kind aimed just to make Frank twitchy), but since this was about as far removed from public as you could get around this camp… "Are you still jealous?" I asked tentatively.

"A little. But Sid explained some stuff to me—you know how he's good with words and feelings and that shit. It makes sense now, but I'll probably wake up tomorrow thinking 'What the fuck was he talking about?'"

"You never really liked BJ, did you?" I didn't feel angry about it, I just wanted to know. "You were both just pretending."

"Yeah—but it was to make you happy, if that makes it any better."

"I know. Could you…_try_ to like him, just a little?"

"That's what I'm planning on doin'—Sidney says 'we'll work on it'. That like his catchphrase or somethin'?"

"Who knows with psychologists?"

And then we lay in peaceful silence for a little longer, until he asked softly, almost frightenedly, "You're, uh…you're not plannin' on doin'…_this_ again, are you?"

_This_ most likely meaning that which had put me in this bed. "No, I wasn't planning on it. It wasn't very fun."

"Good. But if you ever do, just come _talk_ to me, okay? I'll set you right."

"With words or with fists?" I teased lightly.

"Whichever one works better."

"Thanks, Trap," I said, squeezing his hand again.

He smiled at me, an open and carefree smile, loving but in a different way than the sort of smiles BJ and I shared. "What're best friends for if not to sock their buddy when he does something stupid?"

"I _knew_ there was a reason I kept you around! Who could resist the threat of such big, meaty paws?"

We lay in silence again, an unstrained, undemanding peacefulness, until he asked softly, "Would you mind if…can I ask why? Why you tried to…why you did—what you did."

I sighed, staring up at the ceiling, the chilling memory of darkness creeping across my flesh, the terror, the utter and complete hopelessness… "I felt like…like my head'd split open and my brain was spilling out. I was going crazy, I guess, but at the same time, I was sane enough to know exactly what was going on, exactly how bad it was, and that…wasn't something I wanted to live with. I thought it'd be easier if I just bought out on my own terms, before…before I lost it all completely."

"I guess I get that," he murmured after a bit of silent thinking.

I turned to look at him, my eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"Yeah, it kinda makes sense. Then again, _you_ can make anything stupid sound like a good idea." A calculating expression crossed his face. "How 'bout we make a deal? If you ever feel like your brain's spilling out again, you'll come talk to me and let me help you; and I'll try my hardest to like BJ."

I smiled over at him and held out my hand. "Deal," I said, and we shook on it.

He jumped up to his feet suddenly. "Hey, why don't we go for a walk or somethin'? I mean, you been cooped up in here all day, you gotta be wantin' to get out…"

Affecting my best British accent (which was, incidentally, also my worst), I rose and said, "Marvelous idea, good chap."

"Tallyho and all that, then?" he agreed in his own abominable accent, and we strolled out of the tent side-by-side, ignoring all the stares until Margaret planted herself firmly in front of me. I bumped lightly against her and then bounced back, tilting my head slightly in what I hoped was an inquisitive kitten expression.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Walking, love," I drawled.

She blinked rapidly. "Are you…sure you should be up? I mean, you just…" She trailed off into awkwardness.

In consideration of our newfound friendship, I dropped the accent and lightly gripped her arms, summoning up a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Margaret. Really. I got some help, had a few people knock some sense back into me. I just need some air."

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "I'm glad you're okay, Hawkeye." And then surprisingly, she threw her arms around me in a fierce hug, making my ribs creak, before backing quickly away and wiping at her eyes. "Just make sure you stay that way!" she ordered, and bustled quickly past.

"Intriguing," Trapper murmured, pretending to adjust a monocle.

"And how. Shall we away?"

"We shall." We hooked elbows and wandered towards the chopper pad, and I felt truly at peace for the first time in a very, very long time.


	28. Normalcy

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Twenty-Eight: Normalcy**

Sometimes—scratch that, _most_ of the time—I had an enormous amount of trouble falling asleep. I was usually thinking a dozen different thoughts at any one time, and I always had to go through the difficult process of shutting down those thoughts before I could sleep. Unless I was completely and truly exhausted, I usually ended up staring up at the ceiling for about an hour before I finally convinced my brain to shut itself down. But sleep was proving particularly elusive on this night. I pushed myself up on my elbows and asked softly, "Is anyone else awake?"

"No," Trapper muttered, and BJ mumbled something into his pillow. Frank continued his whimpering snores.

Sidney chuckled. "And I thought I was the only one."

"Who wants to go for a midnight stroll?" I suggested hopefully, sitting up.

"Sure," BJ mumbled. "Wake me up at dawn."

"No," Trapper repeated.

Sidney's cot creaked, and he laughed again. "I'll go with you, Hawkeye."

Not exactly what I'd been planning, but Sidney was good company, and another soul-searching talk with him certainly wouldn't hurt anything. So we wandered up to the chopper pad—a very good place for privacy—and sat down Indian-style, facing each other. "So how do you feel?" he asked.

"Pretty good. A little sleepy, but there's too much going on in my head to sleep."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Today. And…about how much of an ass I was. A dumbass, a jackass, just a general ass—or a General's ass, if you prefer. Is there a 'stupidass'? No that's stupid-head. I've always liked that insult. I'll have to remember to use it then next time Frank says something stupid." I thought about that and then revised it to, "The next time Frank says something." I backed up the train of thought and redirected it more towards where I'd meant it to go originally. "I panicked, and I didn't think things through—I reacted all with emotion and no logic. Then again, isn't that the very essence of _me_—emotion without logic." I grinned at him. "This is some pretty deep stuff, Sid. You should be writing it down."

He returned the smile. "I'll remember it."

"My brain doesn't seem to have much control over what I do—I usually follow my heart or my gut." With a chuckle, I added, "I think my brain might hate me."

"Well, I might start to hate you, too, if I had to live inside your head my whole life. Just getting a glimpse inside there is almost overwhelming."

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment to my individuality and inner twistiness. Outer twistiness, too. That's why you like me so much, isn't it? You have to actually _work_ to understand me, since I'm so twisted up. I like to think of myself as a contradiction in terms."

"You are that," he agreed, seemingly content to let me ramble on.

"I don't like to be understood. I like to keep people guessing, so they never know what I'll do next. Mysterious, you know? The allure of the unknown. Did I ever tell you about Carlye? She knew me too well. Even when I was completely unpredictable, she could predict it, somehow. I started to hate her for it, after a while—I didn't like that she knew me so well, that she knew me better than I did. It made me feel unoriginal, _normal_—and you know how much I hate that. I'm…worried BJ might end up knowing me too well. I want to let him in, but if I do, I might start to hate him."

He didn't answer right away, probably thinking through his reply. He, unlike me, didn't enjoy veering off on tangents. He liked to have a set path for the conversation. "In my humble experience with a marriage that's lasted five years now, I find that sort of connection to be exhilarating. A connection of two bodies, minds, and souls so deep one can anticipate what the other will do, say, or think before it happens. I live for those moments when my wife and I can just look at each other and know we're thinking the same thing, because it reminds me why I love her—she knows me more deeply than any other person, and still loves me in spite of all the things she knows about me. To know that another living person cares enough for you to _want_ to know you completely…"

"That's not a bad way of looking at it," I said thoughtfully, leaning back on my elbows and stretching my legs out, looking up at the stars and the moon crawling slowly across the dark sky.

Sidney shrugged. "It comforts me."

"I suppose I've aged a bit since residency—if you can believe it, I was even weirder then than I am now. Carlye and I kinda had a love-hate relationship, and a lot of the time we were just looking to piss each other off as much as possible so we could have make-up sex. Subconsciously, I was always looking for reasons to hate her, I guess, and her knowing me so well was the biggest one. But I'm different now, personality-wise and all, and I don't want to hate BJ, subconsciously or otherwise. And maybe it's like you say, maybe it'll be good to have someone know all my faults and still love me in spite of them."

"Or still love you _for _them."

"Or that," I agreed. "Another thing—do you think it's possible that Trapper and BJ will ever _really_ like each other? I mean, there's just something between them—jealousy, or something like that—and I'm not sure they can ever get over it."

"I think they can," he said, and his confidence surprised me. "They have to realize that you're able to care for them both equally, albeit in different ways. And once they realize that, it's just a matter of establishing common ground, which I don't think should be too difficult. I'll take care of them," he promised.

"You're a good friend, Sidney. I want to thank you for all your help."

"It's a pleasure, Hawkeye. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't help you?"

"Yeah, well…you can't tell me you didn't have any doubts; I mean, I saw your eyes, Sid—you weren't sure about me for a little while there."

"Would you believe me if I said that I was uncertain about myself rather than you? I wasn't sure I'd be able to help you as much as you needed me to."

"I'll buy that halfway but…come on. I was pretty far gone. You must've been just a little uncertain, _once_." I held my three fingers up in the Boy Scout sign. "I won't tell, promise. Doctor-patient confidentiality."

He sighed, a grudging smile playing across his lips. "All right—yes, I was a little worried. You seemed to have no interest in helping yourself, and there was only so much I could do. The worst was not knowing what had caused your…situation. But we've both recovered."

"So we have." I stretched my arms towards the sky, yawning. "Thanks, Sid, you've managed to nearly shut my brain down. I think I hear my bed calling me—or maybe that's just the voices in my head. Is it normal to have four people talking inside my head?"

"With you, Hawkeye, I wouldn't presume to know what normal was."

I grinned. "That makes me feel a lot better."

* * *

Morning came too early, and brought with it wounded. Potter tried to tell me to go back to the Swamp and get some rest, but I argued that with BJ still off his feet, Potter and Trapper couldn't handle the wounded alone. "What about Burns?" Potter pointed out.

"I didn't think Frank counted," I said blandly, and Potter told me to scrub in.

The wounded were the result of a surprise meeting between an Allied scouting party and a group of North Koreans on a similar purpose. There were only about ten of them, but they'd done enough damage to each other that we all had to cancel our plans for the morning.

I happened to look up from a below-the-knee amputation to see BJ hobbling precariously into OR, Sidney at his elbow. "Hey!" I shouted. "What d'you think you're doing? You'll put too much stress on that leg!"

"I'm fine," BJ said dismissively.

Sidney, looking faintly confused and slightly scandalized above his mask, said, "He told me you'd said it was all right for him to be walking."

"Did I say that?" BJ asked innocently, and I glared at him.

"I said you could go from bed to the latrine, if even that! Back to the Swamp, _now_!"

"But I'm lonely," he whined, making big eyes at me.

I told my stupid heart to stop fluttering like that, and ordered Klinger to take BJ back to bed. Once I'd finished with the amputation, I took a well-deserved break and stomped off to the Swamp. BJ smiled brightly at me, and it was impossible not to return at least a fraction of that smile as I flipped down his blankets and started prodding his leg. "I should warn you," he said, "if my dad sees us like this, you'll have to marry me."

Luckily, my head was turned down towards his leg at an angle so that he shouldn't have been able to see my smile. I chose not to respond to that and went for a stern reprimand instead: "If you don't take it easy, you're going to do serious damage."

"But it's so _boring_."

"And the more you try to make it not-boring, the longer it _will_ be boring."

"I can help in OR. My right hand's fine, and the left one's getting much better—"

"Just what do you think you would _do_?" I pointed out patiently. "You can't carry anything, because you can't walk. You can't operate because, one—you only have one fully-functional hand, and two—you _cannot_ stand for long periods of time. If you want to be a cheerleader, I'll have a few corpsmen drag a chair in there for you, but you're much better off _here_. In bed. Resting."

He looked at me with a calculating expression, and then accused, "You look tired."

"Cutting into kids does that to me."

"I think _you_ might also be better off _here_." A pointed look. "In bed." A pause, layered with suggestion. "Resting."

I tried very hard not to smile, but ultimately failed. "Much as I'd love to, we've got wounded. They need me in surgery." Inwardly, I winced, knowing what he was going to say.

"I'd say there's a fairly pressing need for you _here_."

"I wouldn't've guessed that dislocating a hip could so drastically increase a man's sex drive," I said mildly. Amazing, how things seemed almost back to normal between us—proof that anything could be fixed with a little cuddling, some open conversation, and sleep.

"Well, it does," he said tersely, and then flashed a brilliant smile, reaching out to wrap his hand around the back of my neck and pull me closer. Still smiling, I braced my arms against the side of his bunk, preventing him from pulling me in for whatever lewdness he had in mind. He frowned, then pouted.

"You know," I said idly, ignoring that pout, "with you in your present, fragile condition, there's only a limited scope of…_things_ we could do, if you catch my innuendo. Namely, nothing that would put any stress on your hip."

"My hip's fine."

"It's _not_. You dislocated it! Add to that your apparent need to piss me off by walking on it before you're ready, and _now_ you want to— You'll have to be patient. And be a patient. Doctor knows best."

"Doctor mean," he complained, sounding very much like a sulky two-year-old. "Doctor no like me."

"Doctor like you _very much_. Doctor no want to hurt you."

"I'm robust."

"Whose bust?"

He pulled a face, then reached down to rub my hip in a rather suggestive way.

_Steady, Hawkeye, steady… _"Beej," I said seriously, holding his gaze in what I hoped was a stern way.

"Ben," he retorted, and it was suddenly a lot harder to ignore that hand on my hip.

My mother had been the only person to call me Ben on a regular basis (excluding the teachers who'd done so just because I'd asked them not to), and I'd always gotten angry whenever someone else had tried it—it felt like it was soiling the memories of my mother, and the name only she'd used for me. But hearing that one syllable uttered in BJ's voice—said with a certain unavoidable sensuality, an inescapably raw sexual force—was _completely_ different from the memories of my mother's gentle chiding, her whispered goodnights; and it sparked something inside me—I couldn't explain _what_, but it made my head spin a little, and started a faint, happy buzzing in my ears.

I was on the verge of deciding that maybe they _could_ handle OR without me when there was a frantic pounding on the door. "Hawkeye!" Radar shouted. "We just got a chest wound come in, and Trapper's busy with a different patient, so you gotta take it—"

I squeezed BJ's arm briefly, leaned in for a fleeting kiss, and then dashed out the door.

Things were back to normal.


	29. Age of Innocence

All right, kiddies, listen up. You remember that mysterious "idea" I mentioned back in Chapter 24? Well, forget it. Or at least forget most of it. Or listen to me ramble about it so that you have some understanding of why you should just forget it.

The idea was to take on the MASH-slash yahoo group-thing's ABC challenge, in which you have to write something for each letter of the alphabet. I had decided that I wanted to do this and, as such, made an outline for what each letter would be; the story would've continued on as it had been, the only difference being that the chapter titles would begin with the next letter of the alphabet, and that each of the aforementioned chapters would be its own self-contained little "episode." However, upon looking over the outline, I realized that most of the chapters would have been superfluous (I love that word). Add to that my tendency to be easily distracted, and I determined that writing another 26 chapters (over half of which would have been rather unnecessary) was not a good idea (and that I wouldn't be able to hold my own attention long enough to write them all anyway). So, what I'm going to give you is a sort of abridged version, if you will—the chapters I deemed vital to the continuation of the plot (or just too fun not to write). Thus, there will be about 10-13 more chapters of "In Love and War" (counting the one you're about to read, unless this little author's note has made any interest you might have had in continuing to read this fic evaporate).

I apologize for any confusion caused by my rambling. Comfort yourself by thinking of how _I_ must feel—all you have to listen to is the semi-coherent stuff that comes out of my brain; I have to listen to it all.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with Edith Wharton's _The Age of Innocence_, I'm just borrowing some of the pretty words.

**- In Love And War** **-  
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Age of Innocence**

The next morning, the war was kind enough to let us eat breakfast before sending the wounded pouring in. BJ, who I'd insisted travel via wheelchair pushed either by myself or a willing Sidney, tagged along; I tried to tell him to go back to the Swamp and rest, and he pointed out that he'd done plenty of resting yesterday. Since I couldn't very well argue with that, and since I had other concerns like sucking chest wounds, I stopped badgering him.

Sidney rolled BJ into OR and up to my table. "Mind if I observe?" BJ asked, stretching his neck to get a better view.

"Sure, just watch my elbows. You've already got enough bruises without me adding more."

Potter swore softly. "Anyone got a free hand?"

"Gimme a minute," Trapper called.

"This kid doesn't have a minute!"

"I've got a hand," BJ offered.

A brief hesitation, and then Potter barked, "Get over here, Hunnicutt."

"Be careful," I cautioned as Sidney rolled BJ over to Potter's table.

"Yes, Mother. I know my own limitations. I'm a doctor, too, remember?"

I mumbled an offensive reply that, luckily, no one but Nurse Donnovan heard, and managed not to mother hen until he'd been in there for a few hours and I ordered him to go take his pills and go to sleep. He didn't argue, and I noticed that his face was starting to look almost as pale as his mask; but I had to trust that Sidney would take care of him, since I had to give all my attention to the bowel resection I was working on.

Not long after, Klinger finally announced the end of our stock of wounded, and I'd started to drag myself off to the dressing room when Potter called to me, "You got a minute, Pierce? I'd like to talk to you in my office."

"I didn't do it, Principal Colonel, I swear," I mumbled, but I shifted course to follow him into his chilly office.

"Radar—" he called as he sat down behind his desk, and Radar squeezed in through the door before it had swung shut behind me.

"I'll put some more wood in the stove, sir."

"—throw some more wood in that stove, would you? Thank you."

I dropped into one of the chairs, leaning my head back and propping my aching feet up on his desk with a big sigh.

He folded his hands and looked at me over the tops of his glasses, his eyes concerned. "How you feeling, son?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that," I complained mildly. "I'm starting to think I should just write 'I'm fine' in big black letters on my forehead."

"We're worried about you, Hawkeye. That's all." He sounded slightly hurt, and I berated myself silently. Potter was similar to my dad in many ways, and I, like almost everyone else in camp, looked up to him as a father figure. He cared about all of us, saw us as a second family; the very least I could do was show him some respect and consideration.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. I'm just tired, and lack of sleep combined with slicing open kids that are young enough to be _my_ kids makes me…brusque. I'm doing fine, and I'm feeling much better—and if you want a second opinion, I'm sure Sidney would be glad to give it. I was just feeling a little over-stressed, and I think my head might've come a little loose; but Sidney got it screwed back on right, and I'm feeling perfectly chipper."

He smiled faintly. "War gets to everyone, eventually. If you need some time off, take it. I don't want you doing anything else stupid—my wife still wants to meet you after the war's over, remember."

"I will, Colonel," I promised, giving him a tired smile as I walked towards the doors. "Thanks."

My fellow Swamprats were in various states of reclination, Trapper and Frank both sprawled on their bunks, Sidney (who'd declined the bed in the VIP tent for reasons unbeknownst) propped up on his pillows and flipping through one of my nudist magazines, and BJ still sitting in his wheelchair. "Did you take your pills?" I demanded.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Then you should be sleeping."

"I'm hungry, and I'd hate to impose on anyone else."

"But you don't mind imposing on _me_, is that it?"

"Exactly. Come on, McDuff—to the mess tent."

I pressed my palms together in front of my chest and bowed, and then rolled him back outside. I started pushing him towards the mess tent, but he abruptly grabbed the wheels of the wheelchair, halting his forward motion and propelling my chest into the back of his head. "What—?!"

"I don't want to go to the mess tent anymore," he announced calmly, apparently not too uncomfortable with being bent in half while I tried to get my balance back.

"Then why—?"

"There's something I want to talk to you about—the sort of something I don't necessarily want anyone else overhearing. Not _that_ kind of something," he added when I started to protest. "_Talking_. I want to _talk_. About things."

"Oh. Well, unless I'm mistaken, Trapper has a date in the supply tent, which leaves us with a _very_ short list of places to seek privacy."

"What about the VIP tent?" he asked calmly.

"Well, considering the VIP tent makes up the entirety of the list, I'd say that's our best bet. There is, however, the little matter of the local rumormill, and much as I love to be talked about, I don't think people seeing us disappear into a tent together for an unspecified amount of time will generate the sort of talk we want."

"Already covered. I mentioned to the colonel that I was having a little trouble sleeping comfortably, what with my leg, and army cots being like they are—and he told me I was welcome to the VIP tent any time I needed to get a good night's or afternoon's sleep. And of course you, as my doctor, need to make sure I'm comfortable."

"That's calculating and manipulative." I grinned. "I like it. Let's go."

I got him settled comfortably on the bed, and then stood there, a little awkward and uncertain—could we lay together in a bed without doing anything more than cuddling?—until he reached a hand out to me, smiling that little smile that was _mine_ and mine alone; I put my hand in his and let him pull me down next to him, one arm wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me comfortably against him, while he held our clasped hands between our bodies. I rested my head on his shoulder, took a deep breath of that unique smell of his—a heady mix of soap and aftershave and gin and the faint coppery trace of blood, and something else I couldn't identify, something undeniably _him_ that didn't need any other description than that.

"So," I murmured, feeling quite relaxed and contented, "what's this something you wanted to talk about?"

"Have you read _The Age of Innocence_?"

"Of course. We gonna start quoting that?"

"If you want."

"Well, why not? I'll start. 'Each time you happen to me all over again.' I always loved that line." Not to mention its bearing on the present situation.

"Me too," he murmured, pressing his face against my hair.

"I assume you had a specific quote in mind when you brought up the subject?"

"Mmm. Two, actually, but I have to save one for later, once we get there. Though the other one fits now, I think… 'I want somehow to get away with you into a world where words like that—categories like that—won't exist. Where we shall be simply two human beings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter.'"

"You memorized that whole thing?" I asked, surprised, lifting my head to look down at him.

He shrugged, smiling faintly. "It was the least I could do. And I think the least _you_ could do is say something about the fittingness of that particular quote."

Grinning, I put my head back on his shoulder. "It's sweet. But…do you really think it's possible?"

"I think we have to give it a try. I'm willing to, if you are."

Good thing I wasn't standing, because my legs went to jelly. "Of course I am." Now that that was done, here came the hard part. "But what about…Erin and Peg?"

"I'm glad you brought that up, because that leads nicely into the other quote: 'You gave me my first glimpse of a real life, and at the same moment you asked me to go on with a sham one. It's beyond human enduring—that's all.'" His hand gently stroked my hair, lips pressing against my forehead; and that quote touched me as the first one hadn't. "I love Peg, but I'm not _in love_ with her. There's a big difference. If I have to choose between her and you, I choose you."

I didn't answer him right away, letting the words sink in and stewing over them a bit before finally asking, "So you're saying you'll divorce Peg? Leave her, and leave Erin, and…come with me?"

"That's certainly what it sounds like, isn't it?"

I squeezed his hand tightly, shifted so that I could see his face, look into his eyes. Knowing I sounded like a little kid, and not caring, I demanded, "You promise?"

He squeezed my hand back. "I promise."

_I'm a homewrecker,_ I realized as I settled back against him. _I've just destroyed a marriage._ _I should feel guilty…but I don't._ That surprised me, a little. I'd always made it a policy not to sleep with married women (or men, for that matter) because of my express desire _not_ to break up any marriages…_and yet, here I am._ Laying in bed with a married person (strike one)—a married _man_ (strike two)—having just received the promise of throwing three happy years of marriage down the toilet (strike three, _you're out!_)—and not feeling a drop of guilt (_there goes the game, pack it in, boys_). I had what I wanted, and I was happy—so what if my happiness destroyed the lives of two other people? They were two people I didn't know, people I'd only seen in photographs, only heard about from the man who was now nibbling on my ear—two people who would prevent me from being happy unless I did the same thing before they could. Opportunistic, yes, and an insidious little voice whispered at the back of my head, _Do the ends really justify the means?_ Yes. As far as I was concerned, as far as I wanted to think—yes.

"The only thing is," he murmured, "I want to be able to explain all this to her in person…after the war. I think it's the least I can do…"

"Yeah, okay. I can understand that." Understood, yes. Liked, no. The sooner he told her, the sooner I'd have him all to myself—and who knew how long the war would drag on? But he was right—he was leaving her for another man, she deserved a face-to-face explanation. But I was a little worried that if he saw her again before he told her, he'd realize just what he was doing—realize that I probably couldn't even come close to comparing to Peg, and that there was a very slim chance of my bearing him a replacement daughter—realize he'd be abandoning his daughter, his beloved Erin, to a fatherless life—

_Stop,_ I commanded myself. _He's a big boy, capable of making his own choices. He sounds like he's thought this trough, and he won't go back on his word._

Except for the fact that he'd be breaking his marriage vows, that greatest of promises—_to have and to hold from this day forward for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish __**as long as we both shall live**__—_

"Penny for your thoughts?" he murmured.

"I love you."

He tilted my head up to bring our mouths together, and I let him take advantage of me until his hands started roaming a little too freely. "Beej," I murmured against his lips. "You remember what I said about there only being a certain number of things we _can_ do, and there being mostly things we _can't_ do?"

"Mmm-hmm," he mumbled, mouth moving lower than my face, hands moving lower than my chest.

"I'm guessing you've got one of those things we can't do in mind."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Which means I should stop you before we start something we can't finish."

"Mm-mm. 'm fine." He pulled away from his intense exploration of my neck long enough to say, "Haven't you ever heard of sealing a promise with a kiss?"

"We already did that," I pointed out.

"It was a big promise. It deserves something bigger than a kiss."

"I don't usually have to say this on the first date, but could you stop sucking on my collarbone?"

"You taste good."

"You need to sleep. _I _need to sleep."

"We'll get there. Eventually. Stop squirming."

I managed to slide out of his arms and climb off the bed, glaring at him from a safe distance. "You're an invalid—"

"But my love isn't."

"—and as your doctor, I'm ordering you to cool your libido and get some rest."

"I don't want to sleep here. I'll get lonely."

I threw my hands into the air. "Then we'll go back to the Swamp!"

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

I raised my eyebrows at him, and gestured wordlessly towards his…waist. Even with the layers of winter clothing, his little (or admittedly not-so-little) problem was quite apparent to anyone who happened to have enough of an interest in that part of the human anatomy to glance there every once in a while. His face reddened, and he tried to shift his jacket to cover said problem, though to no avail. "I could go get a little snow," I offered innocently, and he glared at me.

It was a few more minutes before I got him back into the wheelchair, and then into the Swamp; Sidney looked up when we came in and said, "I thought you were going to be sleeping in the VIP tent."

Raising his voice to a falsetto, BJ explained, "The first bed was too hard. We couldn't find the second bed."

"The third bed was MacArthur's, but his mommy wouldn't let us sleep over," I added.

"That's filthy," Frank complained.

"So's the war, Frank," Trapper mumbled. "Now could you all shut up and let a guy sleep?"

"My thoughts exactly," I said, and pointed BJ to his bunk, going to my own once he was settled. Sidney was watching me with a small, amused smile, and I made a face at him. His smile widened slightly before he returned to reading his book.

At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for, Hawkeye Pierce lay down slowly and walked alone into the world of dreams. _(A/N: Which, if you're interested, is similar to the last line of _The Age of Innocence.)


	30. Christmas

Updates are going to be a little slower in coming (as you may have noticed)—school, and all the time-consuming work that comes with it. But don't worry, I'm still working on this! There will be seven or eight more chapters (depnding on whether or not I decide to cut one), and what little free time I have now is devoted to FINISHING this. Yay! (I will point out that reviews serve as a _wonderful_ incentive to get me writing faster…)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the lyrics to any of the songs; don't know who does, but it's not me.

**Note**: What you see before you is an edited version of this chapter, to keep the story at a T rating; if there are those of you out there who, like me, tend to like something more explicit, I'd be happy enough to email you the unedited version. You can reach me at kungfublu2 (at) centurytel (dot) net. This is a recording.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Thirty: Christmas**

The hot chocolate was more like a solid than a liquid, but unlike most army foodstuffs, it had taste. Even more than that, it tasted _good_. Chewing idly on it, one was reminded of those cold winter days long ago, in a different world far away, sitting in front of a crackling fire, next to a brightly-lit Christmas tree, smiling as Mom handed you a steaming mug of very similar hot chocolate and Dad read "The Night Before Christmas." It was enough to remind one just how long ago and far away those remembrances were, how different this place was from that warm, cozy place of memory. Here, snow and cold wind blew in through the tent, forcing everyone (clad in as many layers of clothing as we could get our collective hands on (_…folks dressed up like Eskimos…_)) to huddle close together; nary a crackling fire in sight, and certainly no mothers and fathers to read stories and sing carols with. The only redeeming qualities of this cold, miserable Christmas in this cold, miserable place were (as far as I was concerned) the hot chocolate, and the company. The comforting warmth of BJ at one side and Trapper at the other (_…We three kings…_), shoulders pressed to mine as we each nibbled at our hot chocolate, the glow of good friends enough to drive away most of the lingering chill. (_…__Faithful friends who are dear to us Gather near to us once more…_)

I was, without a doubt, the most festive person there (excluding Potter Clause), wearing what I'd asked Dad to send me: a little plastic headband supporting a big plastic star that flashed with different colors. It seemed to make everyone giggle when they looked at me—the same effect it'd had when I'd had to wear it for the fifth grade Christmas play, though now I thrived on the happy giggling (_…Silver bells, silver bells…_) instead of being embarrassed by it. If I could add a little extra Christmas cheer by playing the fool, why not do it (since I never really needed a special occasion to play the fool anyway)?

Trapper was reminiscing about Christmases past, and his longing to be home with his family _(…I'll have a blue Christmas without you, I'll be so blue thinking about you…_); BJ lamented missing his daughter's first Christmas (_…The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads…_), and that mention of his other life dampened my spirits significantly. The hot chocolate turned to mud in my mouth, and I set my mug aside, no longer comforted by the familiar taste. I mumbled something about having to go somewhere to do something and levered myself up from the bench, shouldering my way through the whole of the unit packed into the mess tent, swinging the door open to shouted protests and letting it slam shut, abruptly cutting off the cries of displeasure and the softer sounds of general merriment, laughter and a few poorly-sung verses of carols. It was quiet here, outside, the only sound that of fat snowflakes joining their predecessors on the white carpet. (_Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!_)

I tilted my head back, sticking out my tongue to catch the snowflakes; lifted up my arms and turned in a slow circle, my memory latching on to the smells of hot chocolate and popcorn and cookies—the smells of childhood Christmases—and let myself be pulled away, far away from this cold, miserable place, to a small, cozy house in Crabapple Cove, with a warm fireplace and a towering tree, stockings and presents; (_…I'm dreaming of a white Christmas Just like the ones I used to know…_) and outside, no measly dusting of snow, but blankets of it, a young boy sinking into it up to his knees, turning in a circle and catching snowflakes on his tongue, falling back into the waiting arms of white, arms and legs moving in synchronization as the snow continued to fall… (_…__I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams…_)

"Hawkeye?"

I looked up, blinking snow from my eyelashes, and realized that I'd joined my young memory-self in making snow angels. Sat up and brushed snow off the back of my head, squinted up at the person standing in front of me. Backlighting made it impossible to see any distinct features, creating instead a haloed Jesus, come to save me.

"Why'd you leave?" Jesus asked with BJ's voice.

I grabbed onto the nearest of his crutches, using it to pull myself up and bring myself as close to eye-to-eye as I'd ever get with a towering giant like him. My star cast red light briefly over his face, and then threw it back into shadow; then a white light, and finally green, making him squint with each flash of brightness. "It was getting too loud in there," I lied.

"It was what I said about Erin, wasn't it?" He shifted, turning slightly and bringing his face into the lamplight, his features thrown into sharp releif, every angle, every plane, every curve of his face highlighted and clearly visible, the shape of the face I'd gotten to know very well the past few weeks—traced it with fingers and mouth, memorizing the exact shape, imprinting every tiny unique imperfection inside my brain, so I could close my eyes at night and summon his face up as clearly as if he were laying there next to me—which would have been lovely, and was, in fact, an occurrence my body was beginning to scream for, his injuries or no. But all Doctor Pierce would allow were vigorous bouts of face-sucking and the occasional light grope, much to the annoyance of Don Juan Pierce.

I was in the middle of considering what a good combination BJ and hot chocolate would be when he reached out to lightly shake my shoulder, pulling me sharply back to the present and what was bound to be another of those deep, honest, and heart-felt discussions that seemed to plague us. I didn't want that. What I wanted was to push him up against the nearest solid surface and ravage him. But in lieu of being able to do that, I supposed that talking wasn't too bad.

I looked meaningfully at the mess tent, only a few feet away, and we headed towards the privacy of the Swamp. It was almost as cold in there as it was outside, and I built up the fire in the stove while BJ hobbled over to his cot and got himself situated comfortably. He was starting to put a little weight on the leg now, and it was still healing fine, which boded well for our overeager libidos. I sat down in the chair next to his bunk, half-turned so I was facing him; before he could talk, I said, "Listen, Beej—I understand. Erin's your daughter. You love her, you miss her. I understand that. I just…don't like to be reminded that there's a part of you that's not…mine." And I wasn't lying. It would be impossible to ask him to stop loving Erin just because he'd already agreed to give her up; I wouldn't ask him to do that, and he wouldn't be able to even if I did. But that led directly into something I'd been thinking about for quite a while—something I didn't want to say, didn't want to make _him_ think about, because I was afraid he'd change his mind: "I—I don't want you to regret this, Beej. If you—if you really do come with me, you'll be leaving Erin behind…you won't get to see her as much as you would if you…if you didn't come… And I don't want to take that away from you, I know how much you love her—"

He reached out to grab my hand—he seemed endlessly fascinated by my hands, content to toy with them when I wouldn't let him toy with other parts of my body, the rough pads of his fingers running over my palm and the back of my hand, gently massaging muscles stiff from a day of surgery. He just held the hand now, wanting nothing more than to have something with which to hold my attention.

I could see his eyes very clearly in the relative darkness of the tent (we hadn't bothered turning any lights on, so my flashing star was about the only thing lighting the place up), and he was looking at me very intently. "Yes," he finally said, "I love Erin. And yes, I'll miss her. I don't want to lose her, but…I don't want to lose you a lot more." He smiled, and I returned it with relief, shifting a little closer and letting him pull my other hand into his lap. "And I'm sure I'll be able to work something out—after all, California's only a plane ride away from Maine."

"You've really got a way with words sometimes, you know?"

"I acted in college."

"Oh, so that was all _acting_?" I said in feigned indignation.

"Yup." Grinning, he grabbed the back of my head and pulled me closer, bringing our mouths together. "This is all acting, too," he informed me, voice slightly skewed by the fact that I'd sucked his lower lip into my mouth.

"You're a _very_ good actor."

And then there was no more talking. I separated from him briefly to get up and latch the door shut; he raised his eyebrows as I came back, and I could practically see the question hovering in the air above his head: What would we be doing that required the locking of the door? Well, Christmas was a time of celebration, the season of giving; and since I hadn't had the opportunity to buy BJ a Christmas present, I had to give him _something_…

He made a soft, surprised noise as I swung my leg over him and lowered myself down, straddling his hips and sliding my hands slowly up his chest. He closed his eyes, his breathing becoming ragged as I deliberately pressed the lower half of my body against his. I slid one hand up to the back of his neck, lifting his head and bringing his lips up to mine, using all my considerable kissing skill and leaving him gasping for breath when I finally moved my mouth down to his chin, and then to his Adam's apple, which bobbed crazily beneath my lips and tongue. His hands had moved to my shoulders, gripping tightly as I moved my mouth lower still, tugging his scarf out of his jacket to expose more of his neck, yanking off my gloves and sliding my hands up under his layers of clothing, brushing my fingertips against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped, arching slightly against me, and I smiled, leaning up to whisper in his ear, "You have to lay _very_ still, Beej. We wouldn't want to do any damage to your hip, would we?"

He shook his head sharply, eyes closed, breath hissing out through his teeth as I rested my cold hands against his stomach. I pressed my mouth back against his, exploring the inside with my tongue as I slid my hands slowly up his stomach and towards his chest, his own hands opening and closing convulsively on my shoulders.

I pulled my hands out from under his jacket, smiling as he moaned softly with the loss of contact, and slid down his body. Felt him stiffen with surprise as I rested my hands over the very apparent bulge in his olive-green pants.

"Hawkeye," he gasped.

"Yo," I said brightly, undoing the button and then the zipper to reveal tented khaki boxers.

He reached down and grabbed my wrist tightly, and I looked up to meet his eyes, smiling mischievously. He was breathing heavily, his eyes slightly wild. "What—what're…doing…?"

"It's Christmas," I pointed out, flicking the star on top of my head. "Consider this my Christmas present to you." That said, I started working his pants down around his hips, far enough that I could tug the waistband of his boxers down too. He was holding onto the sides of the bunk for dear life, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath rattling unsteadily. Ah, lust, that most primal of human impulses, that emotion that had driven greater men than I (impossible as that seemed) to madness, that insatiable urge to please and be pleased.

I held onto his hips—careful with the still-tender left one—and slowly lowered my head.

**(Camera shifts to focus on the pleasantly-glowing fire in the stove—AKA, this is the part I had to edit out. Suffice it to say that they do certain things indescribable in the equivalent of a PG-13 movie. After a certain amount of time, the camera shifts back.)**

A soft, pleased sigh sounded somewhere above me and I smiled, pulling myself up and grabbing the blanket at the foot of the bed, squeezing next to him on the narrow army cot and wrapping the blanket around us. He pulled me closer, pressing his face against my shoulder and mumbling something unintelligible. I ran my fingers idly through his hair, smiling as he curled himself against my side, the very image of a man sated and utterly content. "Merry Christmas, Beej," I whispered.

"…love you…"

(_…To face unafraid The plans that we've made Walking in a winter wonderland…_)


	31. Interruptions

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Thirty-One: Interruptions**

Someone—one of the many girlfriends, most likely—had once told me that sexual tension was the best part of a budding relationship, that the anticipation was what made the final consummation so wonderful. Whoever that person had been, I felt like strangling her.

As BJ's doctor, I was bound to keep him from doing anything that might further harm his leg, and tackling him to the ground was one of those things, as was allowing him to tackle me. No matter how much I wanted to. No matter how vigorously my libido was reminding me just how long it'd been since I'd last had sex (yes, Christmas had been lovely—but that had been mostly for _him_, leaving me with a faint feeling of neglect). No matter how willing _he_ was to do a bit of damage to his hip if it meant having me.

That was the worst. He made a point of reminding me at least once every day how eager he was to consummate our relationship, how he wanted me, _needed_ me. I'd never considered myself as having much willpower, so I was rather surprised to find that I at least had enough to keep from ravaging him every time he smiled that little smile at me and called me Ben in a certain voice that diverted all blood flow away from my brain and towards a certain other, more inconvenient part of my anatomy.

He'd stopped using the crutches, and his limp had nearly disappeared. Since I didn't trust myself to give him an unbiased examination—I was at the point where I would have told him he was doing just fine even if his leg had been broken in three places, because I didn't think me or Little Hawkeye could last much longer—I begged Trapper to give BJ his check-up. He smirked knowingly and devoted a few minutes to shamelessly teasing me before he finally gave in to my pleas.

BJ passed the exam with flying colors, and I suggested that, since he could now walk without any sort of support, we go for a nice, long walk. He was quick to agree, and we headed for the hills. Most of the snow had melted, but it was still cold enough out that piles of dirty whiteness speckled the hillsides, the random droppings of a giant bird.

Once we'd gotten a safe distance away from camp, I yanked him behind the cover of a thriving bush and pulled him down onto the hard ground. After a brief struggle, I ended up quite contentedly pinned beneath him, our lips locked together and his hands tugging at my jacket, my blood pounding in my ears—_Wait…_

He twisted around and we both stared up at the sky as two choppers zoomed towards the camp. Faintly, we heard the PA: _"Attention, all personnel—incoming wounded. Pack your overnight bags, kids, it's gonna be a long one."_

He looked back down at me, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: how easy it would be to stay here, to let Trapper and Potter and Frank handle the first wave, to wander into OR late and explain we'd gone too far into the hills to hear the announcement and we were very sorry but we're here to help now…and I could see just as clearly that that wasn't really an option. We were doctors, surgeons, we had an obligation to save lives, and that had to be a higher priority than personal pleasure. It _had_ to be—didn't it?

He muttered something and flung himself off me, and we dragged ourselves up, straightening clothes as we sprinted back to camp.

* * *

I was half-asleep over my tray of food, propping my head up by shoving my fist into my eye, lack of depth perception making it significantly harder to stab the food with my fork (and also making it seem like the food was moving, which it quite probably was). 

A tray clattered down next to mine, the sudden sound nearly sending me tumbling over backwards with surprise; a hand on my shoulder steadied me, and Trapper lowered himself gingerly onto the bench. "What're you doin' here?" he asked idly, lifting up a piece of meat for inspection. It was either liver or intestines, and I'd had enough of both for today, thank you very much, and pushed my own tray away.

I rubbed at my face, yawned, started to talk and yawned again halfway through the sentence: "Trying to sl—" Face-swallowing yawn. "—eep, what's it look like?"

He rolled his eyes, lowered his voice a little. "I _mean_, why're you _here_? BJ went back to the Swamp, so you'd, you know, have it to yourself, if you wanted…"

I turned my head to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Playing matchmaker now, Trap?"

He shrugged a little uncomfortably. "It's just—I know you kinda got…interrupted, with the wounded and all, and I thought…"

"I appreciate the thought, but I can barely keep my eyelids up, much less my—"

"Hello, Father!" Trapper said quickly as Mulcahy sat down across from us.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," the Father said nervously.

"Nothing important," I said, drawing little circles in the air with my fork, and watching the interesting trails it made, what with my palm pressing my eye halfway into my skull. "Trapper's just trying set me up on a date."

"I am not!" Trap spluttered.

"My friends set me up on a date once," Father Mulcahy said thoughtfully. "Back before I became a priest, of course. She was a…large woman, with very big teeth."

I blinked slowly at Mulcahy, and then rose without a word and headed outside. "I am not!" Trapper called after me, and I heard Father mumble, "Was it something I said?"

In the exhaustion of a day's surgery and the melancholy of being soaked in children's blood, I'd completely forgotten—amazing as that seemed—about the attempted and failed rendezvous with BJ. And now, reminded of it and—despite my sleepiness—suddenly very eager to pick up where we'd left off, I hurried towards the Swamp to see if it was, in fact, as empty as Trapper had suggested.

It was—BJ the only living soul inside, unless you counted the rats and the bugs. He was dozing, but he woke up well enough when I "accidentally" kicked the stove. "Oh, good—you're awake," I said cheerfully, as he blinked blearily over at me. "Supply tent, five minutes. Don't keep me waiting." And then I swept back outside, to the supply tent, where I prowled around restlessly, glancing at my watch every five seconds or so until, after an eternity, the door opened and BJ slipped inside.

"Took you long enough," I growled, pressing him back against the door. Amazing how arousal could make tiredness disappear.

"It's exactly five—" The rest of the sentence, he said into my mouth, which I latched firmly over his.

He seemed to have a control issue or something—he flipped us around so that it was my back pressed to the wall, me sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, as it were. Not that I minded—far from it, actually. It was just…mildly amusing, his apparent obsessiveness about being in control. Then again, if things went as planned, this would be his first _real_ sexual encounter with a person of the male persuasion, and I couldn't really blame him for wanting to be in control… _Why am I thinking? This doesn't require thought._ I shoved his jacket off his shoulders and pulled my mouth away long enough to strip his t-shirt off over his head; and then his mouth was back on mine, and I ran my hands up and down the deliciously bare skin of his sides, the ridges of his ribs and the softer flesh of his stomach and the jut of his hips before they were covered by his pants. Before I could make any move towards getting rid of that particular hindrance, he'd started tugging at my own shirt and jacket, clumsily trying to divest me of them as skillfully as I'd done to him. He was nervous, but determined, I had to give him that. It wasn't out of pity, but rather out of an intense desire to feel my own bare chest pressed against his, that I separated again in order to help him remove my upper layers. That done, I reached out to pull him tightly against me, pressing my hands against the backs of his shoulders, running my fingers along the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades, his arms braced against the wall to either side of my head as he dipped his mouth back down. I shifted my weight slightly, trying to kick off my boots—a skill I'd turned into an art over here—but they were either tied tighter than usual or my mastery of the skill had begun to fade due to disuse, because no amount of struggling could separate my foot from the boot. BJ pulled back in confusion when I started violently trying to pry the boot off with my other foot; I growled a few choice swear words and reached down to snatch at the laces, then yank one boot off and hurl it into a far corner, the other boot following after. BJ'd managed to keep his wits about him enough to follow my lead, and we were soon pressed back together, clad now in only pants and as many layers of socks as we'd needed for comfort. That particular state of dress (or undress) usually signified that it was time to begin moving towards the bed, and I pushed firmly on his shoulders to get him to stumble backwards a few steps, his mouth separating from mine with a surprised _pop_ as he nearly fell over his feet. I hooked my fingers into the front of his waistband, smiling and holding his eyes with mine, and pulled him slowly towards the cot.

The door creaked softly, a shaft of light from outside spreading slowly across the floor as it was pushed open; I dropped down to the floor with catlike reflexes, scuttling quickly behind the dubious shelter of one of the supply shelves. BJ remained standing, dumbfounded, staring at the now-open door.

"BJ?" Radar's voice exclaimed. I could practically hear the boy averting his eyes from BJ's "nuditity" when he stammered, "I m-m-mean, Cap'n Hunnicutt, sir! Um, sir, are…are you alone?"

"No. I mean, yes—_yes_!"

A nervous, squeaky chuckle, the shuffling of booted feet. "Okay, sir, whatever you say. I, uh, I don't suppose you've seen Hawkeye around anywhere, have ya?"

"No! Not—not since in OR, and that was…that was hours ago, and I haven't seen him since then…since OR…"

"Are you feeling okay, sir? You, uh, you look a little pale."

"Fine—I'm fine. Never better."

"Yeah, okay. Well, uh, if you do see Hawkeye, could ya tell him I'm lookin' for him? It's kinda important…" Another shuffling of feet, and the door was pulled quickly and firmly shut.

"Real smooth, Romeo," I muttered, crawling out from the shelf I'd wedged myself into.

"Just shut up," BJ growled, his face going from pale white to bright red, eyes now fixed on the floor when he'd only had eyes for me a moment ago.

I reached out to touch his shoulder, pulled him around to face me, leaned in to capture his mouth again; but he wasn't nearly as responsive as he'd been before. I bent slightly to catch his eyes, say, "Hey, c'mon, nothing to stop us from continuing…"

"Radar said he needed you," BJ mumbled.

"Yeah, well _I_ need _you_, and right now, I have every intention of satisfying those needs." I rested my hand against his stomach, felt him go slightly tense—all the nervousness he hadn't been showing before was more than apparent now. The rhythm had been broken, and it looked like he'd come to his senses, realized just what we were doing and how nervous he was about doing it… I sighed, pulled my hand back and held it and the other up in surrender. "Fine, okay, I'll go see what Radar wants. You…" I waited until he met my eyes. "You can either go back to the Swamp and sleep, or…you can wait here for me. It's up to you. I…don't want to press you into doing something you don't want to do, all right? Hey—" I reached out to grab his arm when he started to look back down at floor, bringing his attention back up to my face, to my eyes, so he could see I was telling the truth—or at least as close to the truth as I could ever get when it came to sex. "Take as much time as you need, Beej. You're worth waiting for." I held his eyes for a few moments more, and then went in search of my discarded clothes. Dressed again, I cracked the door open and peered outside; the coast was clear, so I hurried out into the still-chilly air and went in search of Radar.

Turned out the little fink only had to ask me some stupid questions about paperwork, so that he could better disorganize the filing system (honestly, the kid filed requisition papers under 'S' for 'stuff we need'). Needless to say, I wasn't in the best of moods when I stalked from his office back to the supply tent; and my mood sunk even lower when I found the place empty.

I was a little disappointed, though I told myself not to be. It was a big step, sleeping with another guy—a step I'd made early in life, but I couldn't hold other people up against the same standards to which I held myself. BJ wasn't nearly as morally deviant as I was, and he'd already killed and buried most of the morals he'd come over here with—I couldn't really blame him for a bit of hesitation.

But that didn't mean I wasn't disappointed.

I trudged back to the Swamp, found BJ and Frank both asleep in their bunks, Trapper still awake and drinking; he raised his eyebrows and flickered his eyes towards BJ, which I responded to with a lackluster shrug and a gulp of gin. Trapper knew me well enough not to say anything, to let me sprawl on my own cot with enough to gin to soothe my savage breast, pointedly avoiding looking towards BJ's cot because I knew that if I did, I'd get angry, and being angry would significantly reduce my chances of getting laid.

* * *

BJ and I didn't say much when we three Swamprats plodded to the mess tent the next morning; he seemed a little ashamed, maybe, and still nervous, and I wanted to give him space. That's what I told myself, at least. The truth was probably that I was still holding on to some residual disappointment. 

Potter came over to our table to announce that we shouldn't be getting any more wounded in for a couple of days. After a general cry of joy, BJ pulled Potter aside, and then the two of them snuck out of the tent; Trapper tried to pry from me the more sultry details of the second failed rendezvous, which I refused to give him—but a little refusal couldn't deter Trapper John, and he went so far as to follow me into the latrines, still demanding answers. I had to threaten to piss on his leg to get him to leave me alone, and I expected to find him waiting outside the latrines to continue his prodding; but instead, I found BJ there. "C'mon," he said, and turned and walked away. Really, I had no choice but to follow him.

The motor pool was about the last place I'd expected him to lead me. He climbed into one of the jeeps and sat expectantly behind the wheel, staring at me with a faint challenge in his eyes—again, leaving me no choice in the matter. I climbed into the passenger seat, and we zipped away.

And then it was me doing the questioning and the prodding, asking him where we were going, and why, and any other question I could think up. But he just smiled, and said nothing. I could understand Trapper's frustration with me. I slouched down in the seat, crossing my arms sulkily over my chest, and refused to speak to him. Not that he was in a particularly talkative mood—but if he _did_ say anything to me, oh ho, _then_ he'd get the coldest shoulder of his life. Except that I'd probably melt the moment he turned that contented little smile towards me, and start gushing if he so much as said "Hello."

He swung the jeep over to the side of the road and turned it off, rummaging around in the back and retrieving a big blanket. Two fishing poles and a tackle box were lying in the back, too, but he left those there. "We'll have to walk the rest of the way," he told me apologetically, climbing out onto the road and starting off into the underbrush.

I scrambled after him and demanded not for the first time, "Where? Where're we going?" His only reply was a grin and a wink

We were following a faint trail—little more than a game track, a goat path—and I had to either walk behind him or stumble through the weeds and long grass. I stepped purposefully on his heels every so often, but the only reaction that got from him was an over-the-shoulder glare. Damn his even temper.

We rounded a small hill and were confronted by a little lake, all clear blue water with a fair-sized island at what looked like its exact center. It was…picturesque. Peaceful. Perfect.

I turned to BJ, who was grinning at me now, and tentatively returned the grin. "Did I surprise you?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's a good word for it. How long've you been planning…this?"

"I thought of it last night, but I didn't think the opportunity would present itself so quickly. Proves that this is meant to be, right?"

"Sounds about right to me. I assume that little spit of land's our destination?"

"That was the plan."

"You know the water's going to be freezing-cold?"

"It's only knee-high at the deepest part. Unless you go around to the other side of the island. _There_, it's about, oh…a good ten feet. Sudden drop-off. A bit scary, actually." He bent down and started rolling up his pants legs and pulling his boots off; a little uncertainly, I followed suit, and then followed him into the water—and nearly jumped back out.

"_Christ_! It's _freezing_! It's…_below_ freezing!"

"Stop being a baby," BJ called mildly, already halfway to the island. I grumbled, convinced myself a little cold was worth what awaited me after the cold, and minced my way through the water as quickly as possible.

Almost as soon as my feet touched solid land, BJ grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug, coupled with a wonderfully powerful kiss that left me a little weak-in-the-knees when he stepped away to spread the blanket out on the ground. He draped himself down on top of it and patted the space next to him; I lay down and he pulled me in for another kiss, slow and sweet—a phrase that rather accurately described the rest of the day. We moved slow, BJ still a little uncertain about the "right" way to go about doing this, and me not wanting to pressure him or force him into this, to make sure this was really what he wanted—which he confirmed in awkward but unequivocal terms. It was more than the simple joining of two bodies—romantic that I am, it felt more like the joining of two souls, that final gap bridged, irrevocably joining the two of us together.

Soul mates.

I'd never put much stock in that sort of thing before, but that was probably because I'd never had any reason to believe it was true. But now… The best way to describe it would be to say something like I'd found a part of me I hadn't even known was missing, my missing half—he completed me, filled me in more ways than I'd thought possible, made me feel like a _good_ person, a person worth the air I took up; he gave me a purpose, a reason to live, a reason to breathe, a reason to get up in the morning; I'd been a half-man before him, and only now could I see how incomplete I'd been—how impossible it seemed that I'd even been able to exist, so half-empty, so unfinished… And the joining of the flesh was only a crude (though intensely satisfying) way to reflect this _thing_, this bond, this…soul-matedness. Slow and sweet and perfect, the epitome of all things good in the world, the highest high I'd ever felt. The tangle of limbs, the dance of tongues, the gratifying _fullness_; moans and groans of surprise at how _good_, how _right_, this felt; the longing for it to never end, to just go on forever and ever and ever…and when that failed, the frantic scramble for that ultimate, toe-curling pleasure and the sweet release, the satisfaction of a job _very_ well-done, and the following lassitude, gasping breaths and drying sweat, closed eyes and small smiles and wanting_ this_ to last forever, this perfect peace.

I opened my eyes slowly, smiled up at the clouds scudding across the blue sky; turned my head to look at BJ, who seemed to be hovering somewhere between awake and asleep. I rolled onto my side and propped myself up on one elbow, gazing down at him; he looked surprisingly like the bright-eyed kid who'd arrived with a nut-job and an MP escort, his face somehow a little less drawn, a little less pale, a little less gaunt than it usually was. But he'd certainly changed since that day of his arrival, both in body and in personality. It was harder to call up the image of that person—BJ before he'd come Beej. He was like me—maybe he didn't have two different names to distinguish his war-self from his pre-war-self, but he was two different people just as surely as I was. The man he'd been, and the man he'd become—the man he'd been forced to become. It was impossible to draw a line at the exact moment when he'd stopped being Dr. BJ Hunnicutt, that green kid from California who pukes after every OR session and who can't hold down his lighter-fluid gin—but he wasn't that person anymore, just like I was no longer Dr. Benjamin Franklin Pierce. Yeah, I'd always been 'Hawkeye', but I'd never _only_ been 'Hawkeye'—here, I had to lock Ben Pierce up in a box, because he couldn't handle the sort of things going on over here. He couldn't handle the blood, the death, the dying kids; he couldn't make jokes no matter what the situation; he couldn't look at a man, stare into his eyes, and think, _I love him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him_.

Benjamin Franklin Pierce couldn't.

Hawkeye could.

And so I was Hawkeye—who knew if Ben would ever come back out of that cozy little box of his? Who knew if I wanted him to—if he wanted to? For now, all I knew was that Ben was gone, and Hawkeye was here to ride the ride, to stay for as long as he could.

Would that change once the war ended? It would have to end sometime. Would I go back to Maine and strip off the Hawkeye persona like a snake sheds its skin? Would Ben climb out of his box and take over? Go back to his interrupted life, forget all the terrible things he couldn't handle, and only look at the things he could?

And if that happened to me, would it happen to BJ? Would he go back to being Dr. Hunnicutt—the married man with a baby he hardly knew, a life completely separate from any of the shit over here? Would Beej disappear like Hawkeye, cast aside, a black stain in our memories not to be looked at, not to be spoken of or even thought about?

Would we come to our senses? And if we did, would _this_ disappear? This connection of two souls, this awareness between us at every level of being—heart, mind, and soul; physical and metaphysical; tangible and intangible. If Hawkeye and Beej disappeared, that would leave Ben and BJ—two separate, disparate souls, the only connection that of _what-had-been_, the things you didn't talk about, those things you were most deeply ashamed of in the darkest hours of the night when sleep refused to suck you down. If we changed, _this_ would end.

But did I want to be Hawkeye for the rest of my life? I'd become him to handle the war, to handle this terrible assault of all things humane—once that was over, what use was there for him? In the natural order of things, he would fade back, let Ben step up to the plate and take the reins, if you could excuse the mixed metaphors. Hawkeye the Shield, protecting poor Ben from the harmful things he couldn't deal with—and you didn't need a shield in peacetimes.

"You've gotten quiet," Beej murmured, eyes flickering open, the same shade as the sky above, running his hand up my arm, to my shoulder, to my neck, to the side of my face, fingers running back through my hair. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand, smiling when he scratched lightly at my scalp. An intensely comforting sensation.

"I'm just thinking."

"'Bout what?" He pulled my head down onto his chest, one hand twining through my hair, the other stroking up and down my arm. His heart pounded firmly, strongly, reassuringly, beneath my ear, matching the rhythm of my own blood pounding through my veins. A perfect fit. A matched set. Two for the price of one.

"Nothing."


	32. Hats Off

Ignore the fact that 'H' comes before 'I' in the alphabet. Rules were made to be broken, right? In fact, you might as well forget I ever mentioned the alphabet, since I plan on screwing it up much more later on.

**- In Love And War** **-  
****Chapter Thirty-Two: Hats Off**

The camp was full of song—a few verses of "Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead!" intermixed with a song Trapper, BJ, and I had made up, proudly titled "Ferret-Face Is Gone." Even Margaret, who still held that Frank hadn't been all bad, was persuaded to join in the singing, and the camp-wide celebration of Frank Burns' stateside reassignment went on long into the night.

The only hitch in the camp's collective giddyap was Frank's replacement, a certain _Chaa'les_ Emerson Winch'ster, _the third_, as we endearingly (hatefully) called (mocked) him (in front of as well as behind his back). He was as high-and-mighty as they come, sitting up on a horse as tall as the White House, looking down a nose that would have put Pinocchio to shame, and with a pole shoved so far up his ass it was a wonder he could still walk. Luckily, Charles seemed to like us even less than we liked him (if that was even possible) and made a point of curling up on his bunk and not looking at or talking to anyone. Which was just fine by us.

He'd had a nice, cushy job up in Tokyo before he'd done something to piss a general off—something big enough to get himself shipped off to this hellhole. I'd made a bet with Trapper that Winchester would crack the first time we got more than a dozen wounded, and I didn't have to wait long to find out if my ten bucks had been wasted: jeeps, ambulances, and choppers coming in regularly, with a just-as-regular supply of wounded. But Winchester handled himself disgustingly well, calmly taking whatever was thrown at him—calmly, yes, but _slowly_. No matter how often Potter or I told him to speed things up, he just drawled, "I do one thing, I do it very well, and then I move on." His façade finally cracked a bit when I sent BJ to take over for Charles, to show him some shortcuts, and apparently reminding him of those panicked, unknowing days of residency. Any sympathy/empathy we might have had for him was wasted, though, since he saw it only as pity and "a Winchester is never pitied."

Winchester had claimed the Swamp as his sanctuary, playing records almost constantly—and the man had very little taste in music. To avoid the music and the man in general, Trap, BJ, and I were forced to seek shelter elsewhere, and so it was that we were the first to notice the supply truck roll into the compound, considering it nearly rolled _over_ us.

We quickly abandoned our game of gin and scrambled out of the way, Trapper yanking a slower-moving BJ out of the direct path of very big tires. The truck screeched to a stop and I surged to my feet, pounding on the door and shouting at the driver—who slumped against me when I yanked the door open, bleeding from the chest. I swore and shouted for corpsmen to bring a litter and get the guy into pre-op.

"You need any help?" Trapper asked as I started towards OR.

"Nah, doesn't look too serious. Probably just got on the wrong side of a sniper. You and BJ check the supplies, make sure nothing got taken or shot or whatever, I'll take care of the driver."

It'd been a long time since I'd had a case as simple as extracting a bullet—no vital organs hit, no non-vital organs hit, and only a bit of digging and sewing required before I sent him off to post-op. I stripped off my whites and put on my greens, and walked out into the middle of a small uproar.

"Baker, what's going on?" I asked, grabbing the nurse's arm as she hurried by.

"You know that supply truck that came in?"

"More intimately than I'd like to. What about it?"

"We weren't supposed to be getting any supplies 'til next week, but quartermaster corps must've messed up or something—we've got twenty crates of hats."

"How many whats of _what_?"

"Twenty crates of hats," she repeated dryly. "Radar made a few calls, but according to the army, those twenty crates don't exist. We're stuck with 'em."

"You're kidding. You have to be kidding. Please tell me you're kidding."

She grinned, shrugged, and went on her way, and I went to confirm the idiocy.

The truck hadn't been moved from where it'd screeched to a halt over our card game, and I found Potter, BJ, Trapper, Margaret, and Radar gathered around the back of it, staring at it and looking a little lost. "Pierce!" the colonel called when he saw me. "How's the driver doing? Is he gonna live?"

"Yeah, he's fine, it was only—"

"That's good, because _I_ want to be the one to kill him."

I looked into the back of the supply truck—the walls lined with stacks of crates. "This _has_ to be a joke," I muttered.

"That's what we thought," Trapper said grimly. "No such luck."

"But…why do we—why does _anyone_ need this many_ hats_?"

"That's what I'm going to go ask the driver," Potter growled. "Radar, get on the horn again, and don't stop 'til you've got me a general!"

"How many hats are there?" I asked as Potter stalked and Radar scampered away.

"Well," BJ said with a grin, "the average count per crate is between fifty and two hundred—whoever sent these was kind enough to give us a variety of styles—which means we've got anywhere from a thousand to four thousand hats."

"That's…_insane_!"

"Welcome to the army," Trapper mumbled.

* * *

As far as the army was concerned, those twenty crates of hats now cluttering the compound were nonexistent. As far as the army was concerned, the driver I'd pulled a bullet out of hadn't been driving a truck, hadn't been shot, and hadn't been operated on. As far as the 4077th was concerned, the army could go screw itself.

We were stuck with all three thousand seven-hundred-and-fifty hats.

At first, BJ, Trapper, and I built a fort with the crates and taped a piece of paper to it that said 'No Girls Allowed' and another piece of paper below it that said 'No Winchesters Either'. But acting like cootie-fearing 10-year-olds stopped being so much fun after the first nine hours (plus, Margaret threatened to court-marshal us after Trapper threw a water-filled rubber glove at her), so we dismantled the fort and started prying open the boxes. Potter, at a complete loss for what to do with the sudden and extreme surplus, had given us permission to do whatever we wanted with the hats. I saw an idea light up BJ's face, and he started manhandling a crate over towards the basketball hoop; he refused to say what his idea was, but I could see in his eyes that it was big—which meant I had to think up something bigger.

"Hey—Trap," I said, grabbing a cap out of a crate and holding it up to the light. "Wouldn't you say that this particular shade of hat looks a little bit like grass?" He grinned and went for glue, needles, and thread, and I went off in search of knives and scissors.

* * *

_(A/N: For fun and convenience, we now switch to Radar's POV for…a little bit.)_

It looked like the captains'd gone nuts. I mean, not like Hawkeye'd gone nuts before, but they were just actin' kinda…you know, strange. Even more stranger than they usually acted, that is. BJ'd taken a box of hats just like the one I always wore (who'da thunk there were so many?) and he was over by the basketball hoop, stackin' the hats up and sewin' 'em all together. It looked like he was buildin' something, and when I asked him what it was, he just smiled and told me I'd have to wait an' see just like everyone else.

Hawkeye and Trapper were slicing up a buncha the hats and sewing the strips together and then—and boy, is this where it gets weird!—layin' all the sewed-together strips outside the Swamp. Least they weren't being all secretive like Cap'n Hunnicutt was—they said they were making a swamp for outside the Swamp, with plants and water and everything! Boy, it's no wonder Klinger can't get his Section Eight—he's only fourth-craziest!

Major Winchester just stayed in the Swamp listening to all this really weird music—he says it's 'classic' or somethin' like that, which I guess means it's really old and was made by dead guys. But I don't think he really liked me, since he told me to scram and not come back until I had his discharge papers. Hawkeye told me to just ignore him, since he was a…a 'pompous windbag' is what I think he said, and then the major called Hawkeye a cretton or somethin' like that and they just started yellin' back and forth at each other usin' all sortsa big words 'til Trapper told 'em both to just stuff it. Hawk asked me if I wanted to help, and then told me to start cuttin' up those big winter hats with the furry ear-flaps, 'cause they were gonna use the fur for moss and grass.

BJ came over to ask me if there was any wood layin' around not bein' used or anything, and Hawkeye tried to get him to tell what he was makin', but he just smiled and asked me again for the wood. I told him where he could get it and when he went away, Hawk told me he had a new job for me: to spy on Cap'n Hunnicutt and find out what he was making. I told him I didn't want to 'cause he was always using me as a spy and how come he couldn't just do the spying himself? He said that he was too big to fit behind trees and under rocks and stuff like that, and I was the only one who could do the job right, and he said I was a really good spy anyway.

Now, I like Cap'n BJ, so I didn't really wanna spy on him; but I like Hawkeye, too, and he lets me look at the nurses' chest x-rays if I do favors for him and stuff, and he always takes care of my pets…so I said I'd do it, and I went over to where BJ was back by the basketball hoop and asked if he'd found the wood fine and all, and he looked up at me with this really strange smile and said, "Hawkeye told you to spy on me, didn't he?"

I stared at him. "How did—?"

"You have this certain look about you when you're spying…it's almost like you're trying _too_ hard to look innocent. So, what would you say to working for _me_ instead?"

"Well, there's really not much to spy on with Hawkeye and Trapper…"

"I didn't say spying, did I?" he asked, smiling this kinda-scary smile. "I said _working_. Not any _hard_ work, just something I think you're particularly suited to."

"Well, uh, Hawk already kinda hired me, you know…he said he'd borrow me one of his…you know, one of his, uh, nudey magazines, if I spied on you for him…"

"Tell you what, Radar. You do one or two _teensy-weensy_ little things for me, and I will _give_ you _two_ of Hawkeye's magazines."

"But—but you—they're _his_—!"

"He won't ever notice," BJ said in the same kinda voice I used to calm Babsy down when she got too worked-up about something. "He's already got too many to keep count of, anyway."

I thought about it for a little while, and then I asked real sneaky-like, "So, uh…whaddya want me to do?"

* * *

**Hawkeye**

BJ, the rat, had turned Radar against us. Not only had he captured the spy, but he'd _converted _him. That betrayal was unforgivable. This merry little "police action" had been started for less.

It was war. All-out, full-blown, whole-hog, out-and-out, no-holds-barred, war.

Trap and I temporarily abandoned the Swamp swamp (which was turning out very nicely, by the way) in favor of plotting vengeance.

The enemy's stronghold (cleverly built out of the disassembled hat-crates and a few dozen nails) stood across the compound, with the Swamp and its neutral ruler Lord Winchester as a buffer zone. Trapper and I had commandeered the offer's latrine as our own headquarters and sent out a scouting party (a few randomly-chosen corporals); their report was grim: the enemy fortification was impenetrable to the eyesight of passers-by, too tightly built to glance casually into, and too high to peer over. We allowed the peasants to go get their rations, and attempted to create the mother of all schemes.

"He's clever," I mumbled. "_Very_ clever, and he knows it. But that makes him smug. He'll think he's thought of everything, so we have to think of something he hasn't thought of. He has no idea just how inventive we are."

"So you got any ideas?"

"Not a one."

The door opened, and we turned to look at the intruder—none other than Winchester himself. "Traitor!" I shouted, pounding my fist down on the strategy table (the chess board set across the toilet bowl).

"What are you imbeciles _doing_ in here?" he snapped.

Trapper draped his arms over the pieces of paper that held our plans (a few detailed sketches of certain parts of the female anatomy). "Wouldn't you like to know."

"What I would _like_ is to use the _latrine_!"

"Oh, sure, that's what _you_ say. But how do we know that fink didn't send you here to spy on us?"

"I will play no part in any of your ridiculous, _childish_ games! Now _get out_!"

We made a mad dash for cover, crouching in Radar's zoo and casting around desperately for a more secure center of operations. Khaki-covered legs whisked by, and I reached out to grab one, nearly sending their owner tumbling face-forward into the ground, but managed to pull her instead into a graceful catch. "Margaret," I said as she gaped up at me with a mixture of shock, wonder, and fury, "we need your help." And after I'd persuaded her not to kill me or charge me with assault, and after I'd explained it all to her, she was surprisingly willing to help.

The plan was made.

* * *

Night—the perfect time for the doing of certain furtive acts that could be easily disguised under the cover of darkness. Trapper, Margaret, and I sat crouched between Margaret's tent and the VIP tent, looking out at BJ's fort and making the necessary preparations.

BJ had suggested a truce for the night, and Trapper and I had agreed with crossed fingers. It was almost endearing how he expected us to play fair. No one played fair in a war, and the winners were the best cheaters.

"Okay," I said in a loud enough whisper that they could both hear me, "Margaret, you know what you're doing, right?" She nodded firmly, a wonderfully mischievous smile playing across her lips. She'd turned out to be even more cunning than I'd ever given her credit for. "So while you're busy with Klinger, Trap and I will go around back—you got the stuff?" Trapper patted the med bag at his side. "This requires perfect synchronization. If one thing goes wrong, the plan's shot. We have to move fast, but not so fast that we're careless. We have—"

"We already went through this," Trapper interrupted testily. "We got it down, let's just get movin'!"

"Okay, okay, I just don't want anything to go wrong. Sheesh, kill a guy for being too careful. Okay, here comes Klinger. Margaret, you're on in…three…two…one…"

"_BOO_!"

The three of us jumped, and either Margaret or I screamed; Trapper careened into me and we both went tumbling into a heap on the ground, while Margaret's attempt to steady herself against the VIP tent resulted in a loud _riiiiiiiiip_ and a just-as-loud crash as she fell through the hole in the tent. I shoved Trapper's armpit out of my face and looked up at the ghoul.

BJ stood there, arms crossed over chest, broad smile and lined face as he tried not to laugh. There was the click of pumps across the compound, and Klinger shouted from behind me, "Captains! Major? What's…goin' on?"

"Didn't I tell you Klinger?" BJ said with equal amounts of feigned innocence and exasperation, his eyes sparkling as he grinned down at me. "Didn't I _tell_ you they wouldn't invite us to their little party?"

"You did, sir," Klinger said, and I could just _hear_ him smiling.

I shoved Trapper off me and heaved myself to my feet, brushing dust off my clothes and titling my chin up, giving BJ my haughtiest glare. "You may have won the battle," I proclaimed, "but you haven't won the war." I spun on my heel and stomped away, leaving Margaret flailing in the wreck of the VIP tent and Trapper trying to drag together the shreds of his dignity. As I flopped down on my bunk, I heard Charles laugh softly; I would have thrown my pillow at him, but I wanted to save that for BJ.

* * *

I waited until the only sound in the Swamp was that of the soft, even breaths of three sleeping men. I climbed slowly, carefully, and quietly out of my bunk and tiptoed towards the door; I was almost there when a voice asked in a cheerful whisper from the other side of the tent, "Where you going, Ben?" I swore at him and went back to my bed.

* * *

I sat listlessly sewing together a hat-flower the next morning, glaring thoughtfully at BJ's fortress. "Give it up, Hawk," Trapper muttered.

"A Pierce never quits," I informed him. "Unless it leads to some personal gain, that is."

"Yeah? Well, giving up now could lead to you not looking like as much of an ass as you already do."

"Are you calling me an ass?"

"Sure sounds like it, don't it?"

"It takes two cheeks to make an ass, my friend, and as I recall, you were right there next to me the whole time."

"Okay, then we're both asses. But this ass knows when to quit. You won't be satisfied 'til someone's got _your_ ass in a sling."

"What are we doing with Hawkeye's ass?" a voice asked from behind, and we both spun around to see BJ standing there with a very interested expression on his face.

I spluttered at him, "I thought—you—weren't you—_there_—now here—_how_?"

"I'm sneaky," he said with a shrug, and then smiled. "I thought you'd like to know that I finished it, and I'm ready to show it to the world."

"You—_finished_?"

"Sentences are your friends, Hawk. Try using them sometime."

"Jerk," I muttered, but I scrambled up to my feet and gave him an expectant look. "Let me see it."

He widened his eyes innocently. "I'd _love_ to, Ben, but there are so many people around…"

Trapper was overtaken by a sudden fit of coughing, and I switched my eager face for an affronted one. "What happened to that nice, innocent, _caring_ kid we raised?" I asked Trap.

"Don't look at me," he coughed. "It's _your_ fault."

"You know what?" I said haughtily to BJ. "I don't _want _to see what you made, anyway. I don't _care_. So there."

He smiled knowingly. "Liar."

"Yeah, so? Stop being as much of an ass as I am and show me your stupid…whatever-it-is."

He hooked a finger at me in a very come-hither way, and I dragged Trapper up out of the Swamp swamp so we could both follow after BJ.

He was waiting at the wall of his impenetrable fort, grinning and bouncing like an impatient kid. "Ready?" he asked when we stopped in front of him, and we both nodded. Dramatically, he grabbed onto the crate-wall and gave it a studied tug, sending the whole structure toppling over and revealing the…thing…at its center.

Made entirely out of sewn-together and piled-up and sewn-again hats (with a little wood for support), it looked vaguely like a person, standing and with one arm stretched into the sky. I frowned at it, tilted my head, squinted, walked around it in a slow circle. It looked vaguely familiar… Looking back at BJ, I said slowly, "It looks like—"

He grinned broadly, proudly. "Yup."

I smirked. "Is it—?"

"Yup."

"And I assume you're calling it—?"

"Yup."

I sighed and shook my head at him.

Trapper, looking back and forth between us, said, "Wait, wait, wait, I'm lost. What's it look like and what's it called?"

"Look at it!" I shouted, waving my arms in the air. "Don't you see it?"

"It looks like a malformed, misshapen blob," Trap grumbled, tilting his head one way and then the other.

"How do you know it's misshapen if you don't know what it is?" BJ asked reasonably. "That could be exactly how it's _supposed_ to look."

"_Is_ that how it's s'posed to look?" Trapper demanded.

BJ grinned a little sheepishly. "Well, not exactly. But as close as I could get with such a limited budget."

"Can't you see it?" I demanded of Trapper, exasperated. "It's the epitome of bad puns!"

"It's not a bad pun!" BJ protested. "It's a _brilliant_ pun!"

"Well, it _is_ nice and all, Beej, but…I think _I_ could make a better monument."

Trapper, still looking perplexed, asked, "Animal, vegetable, mineral, or other?"

"Other," BJ and I said at the same time, hardly sparing a glance for Trapper and instead staring each other down. BJ asked me rather condescendingly, "You really think so?"

"Bigger than a bread box?" Trap demanded

"Yes," Beej and I said again, and then I told BJ, "Yeah, I do."

"Monument—you said it was a monument. Is it a monument?"

"Yes." And BJ to me: "I'd like to see you try."

"Is it a monument from home—from the States?"

"Yes." Me to BJ: "Maybe I will."

"Would ya just tell me what it is?" Trap huffed, interrupting mine and BJ's conversation as well as the game of Twenty Questions.

"No, you've still got sixteen questions."

BJ grinned. "Sure, I'll tell you. I give you…" He spread his arms grandly, the grin increasing in length and width. "…the Hatue of Liberty."

I groaned and rolled my eyes, almost ashamed to be in the presence of such a terrible pun; but then Trapper started laughing, softly at first, but gradually increasing in volume and intensity until he was doubled over and wheezing; and I, who could never resist joining in with a good round of laughter, leaned against BJ's shoulder and guffawed along with Trapper, while BJ stood there grinning with pride.

I got enough breath back to gasp out, "My hat's off to you, Beej," which sent Trapper—and invariably, myself—into further gales of laughter, and we both succumbed to gravity and rolled around on the compound dirt for a bit, BJ eventually walking away and shaking his head, and Charles walking by with a muttered, "Imbeciles."


	33. Mail Call

I promised myself I'd make this chapter shorter, but…well, as you can see, that didn't quite happen. sigh I'm a long-winded and flowery writer. Next chapter will be shorter, Girl Scout's Honor.

Five chapters left after this one!

**- In Love And War** **-  
Chapter Thirty-Three: Mail Call **

"Mail, sirs!" Radar announced brightly as he strolled into the Swamp.

"Don't you ever _knock_?" Charles demanded.

I swung my legs over the side of my bunk to sit up. "Shut up, Winchester. He's the bearer of good news." It'd been three weeks since we'd last gotten mail, and everyone was feeling slightly cut-off from the world. "What've you got, Radar?"

"A whole load a letters for you, sir," the kid said, handing me said load—a whole, wonderful bundle of letters, mostly from Dad. Giggling with joy, I cracked open the first one.

"Got a lot for you, too, BJ." Radar wove his way through the clutter to hand BJ a stack of envelopes similar to mine. "Lots from your wife."

"Thanks," BJ said softly, taking the letters from Radar and setting them aside. Where once he would have read each letter five times by the end of the day, he now waited hours—or even days—before so much as opening a letter addressed from Peg. He wouldn't say why, but I guessed it was some form of guilt. He was, at heart, still a good, honest man, despite all I'd done to corrupt him—it probably hurt, reading all the loving things his wife wrote to him when he knew he'd be going home to break her heart.

"Is Trapper around?" Radar asked, pulling a smaller bundle of envelopes out of his mailbag.

"We folded him up and packed him away for the night," BJ said, at almost the same moment as I said, "He's in his coffin." We grinned at each other, and Radar rolled his eyes.

"Well, d'you know where he is?"

"I think he said something about a nurse, the supply tent, and something that would probably make your head explode if I said it out loud."

"D'you know when he'll be back?" Radar asked, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"What's the big deal? Just leave his mail on his bed like always, he'll read it when he gets back."

Radar shook his head violently, slightly skewing his glasses. "I gotta give him somethin' in person."

"What kind of something?" BJ asked with only mild interest.

"Can you sirs keep a secret, sirs?"

"Radar, that you even have to _ask_ that disappoints me."

"He's right, Radar," BJ said. "You should know by now that Hawkeye can _never_ keep a secret."

"But tell us anyway."

His eyes darted around the tent, and the he dug around in his mailbag, half-pulling out an official army envelope. "See? I gotta give this to him—it's _army_!"

"What's it say, Radar?" I asked, intrigued now. Mail from the army usually wasn't good—the last letter _I'd_ gotten from them had sent me over here. Case in point.

"Well, I wouldn't know about things like that, sir, and even if I did know, I wouldn't want you to know I knew, you know?

I blinked at him, blinked at BJ, then shook my head and said, "Radar, you know Trapper and I are basically the same person. Giving me a letter is like giving him a letter, so give me _that_ letter and I'll give it to him."

"I _can't_, sir!" Radar screeched, aghast.

"Yes, you can. It's easy. Pull it out of that pretty little bag of yours and put it in these pretty little hands of mine."

"Careful, Pierce," Charles murmured, sounding amused. "There are some who might mistake that statement as hinting at something the army greatly disapproves of."

"Charles!" I exclaimed, as aghast as Radar now. BJ laughed softly, and I glared at him; he gave me an innocent smile.

"Corporal," Charles drawled, "my mail? _Please_?"

"Oh, sure, sir," Radar said quickly, pulling out a few letters from his bag and handing them over to Charles.

The major stared expectantly at Radar, who stared back with innocent confusion; Charles prompted, "The rest of it…?"

"That's all there is, sir."

For a brief moment, Charles's face fell, anguish passing across his features. "_Four_ letters? That's _it_?"

"Yessir."

Charles pulled himself back together quickly, sneering at Radar. "Leave, corporal."

"Charles—" I started.

"_Out_!"

Radar scampered away, eyes wide and frightened.

"Oh, _very_ nice, Winchester," I snarled. "Listen, just because you're angry doesn't mean you have to take it out on Radar, the poor kid never did anything to you."

"There is nothing to 'take out', as you so _quaintly_ put it. And now, Pierce, you will kindly remove your nose from my business and your presence from my vicinity!"

"Let it go, Hawk," BJ said calmly, before I could hurl a rude response at Winchester. For some reason—probably just a fluke in his sunny personality—BJ seemed not to dislike Winchester as much as Trapper and I. And even stranger, the undislike seemed to be returned by Winchester. They could tolerate each other. BJ bridged the gap that no one wanted bridged.

"You might consider heeding your friend, Pierce. He, unlike you, obviously has more sense than sack of rocks."

"Winchester," BJ said patiently, though with a dangerous, protective note in his voice, "_you_ might also consider heeding me, before I decide it might be better for everyone to _not_ stop Hawkeye from ripping one of your arms off and whacking you over the head with it."

"Cretins," Charles mumbled, glaring as he pushed himself up off his bunk and stomped outside.

"He deserves to be hit over the head with his own arm," I said to BJ.

"Yes, he does," BJ agreed. "But get someone else to do it. I'd rather not see you thrown in prison for the next ten years—that would sort of ruin those plans we spent so much time making. Come on—regale me with news from home."

I smiled down at the letter in my hands. BJ had been trying to learn everything there was to learn about Crabapple Cove, and lately, he'd started calling it "home."

After reading Dad's vivid description of a small banquet Crabapple Cove had thrown in my honor (apparently, I'd been in Korea for two years now (not that I hadn't been dyeing a strand of hair grey for every day I was away from home)), I discovered that I was ravenously hungry. It seemed that I was also in the mood for the dry heaves or dysentery, depending on which meat-of-the-day (the mentioned day being one at least twenty years ago) I chose. I picked at the food until my stomach threatened to go on strike, and then I wandered back towards the Swamp and the dozen or so more letters awaiting me.

Through the mesh of the Swamp's walls, I could see that _Chaa'les_ had returned and was sitting on the edge of his bunk; I could also see BJ, leaning on Winchester's writing desk, talking to him—actually_ talking_, like you'd talk to a real person. That in itself was disturbing enough, so I took a slight detour to come at the Swamp from a different angle, so I could crouch out of sight of them but close enough to hear what they were saying. And, crazy as it may seem, it sounded like BJ was _comforting_ Charles.

"…down to it, we're _all_ alone here," BJ was saying.

"_You're_ not," Charles accused, though his voice didn't have that normal self-assured, self-important tone I'd become used to. "You have Pierce and McIntyre. _I_ have _no_ one. My own _sister_ writes me only _one_ letter in the span of three weeks. I've been completely cut off from the world, and those upon whom I would rely to pull me from the abyss have already given me up as dead. There's no way out of this hell, and I don't even have anyone to…to _pal around_ with."

I could hear the gentle smile in BJ's voice when he asked, "Charles, what is it you think we're doing right now? If you're feeling cut off, you need to make new connections."

"New connections?" Winchester repeated with a snobbish laugh. "With who?"

"If you stop acting like such an aloof ass, me. If you can ditch that superior attitude you've got, maybe Hawkeye and Trapper. If you start letting people come within arm's reach, maybe Margaret." An indignant snort from Charles. "I'm serious. We've all tried to get on your good side, but you have to let us find it first. And I'll also point out that you have to write letters to get letters back."

"I've written plenty of letters!"

A sigh. "Charles, I read some of those letters you sent out—"

"You _what_?!"

"—and demanding to be 'released from this snake pit' every other sentence is hardly the sort of thing that's going to generate a meaningful response. It's a part of that thing I mentioned before—letting people in and all that."

"You read my letters?"

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

The door slammed shut with a crash, and Winchester stormed out into the compound; BJ sighed in annoyance and started towards his bunk, and I had to scamper quickly out of the way before he could catch sight of me. I looped back around and came at the Swamp from the direction of the mess tent, strolling in and heading towards the still. "What, no hello?" I asked BJ.

"Mmph."

"You should ditch that superior attitude you've got, Beej," I said lightly.

He didn't answer right away; then, leaning up on his elbows, he accused, "You were spying."

"Of course I was." I draped myself on top of my bunk and raised an eyebrow challengingly at him. "Had to make sure you weren't planning any midnight rendezvous with _Chaa'les_."

"How much did you hear?"

"Enough to be amazed all over again at what an all-around good guy you are."

"Gee, and I didn't get you anything."

"We can take care of that later tonight. Come over here and I'll read you another letter." He stood up with an easy, tolerant smile and sprawled in the chair next to my cot.

About a half-hour later, I was summarizing another of Dad's letters for BJ when Trapper swept into the Swamp, humming to himself. "Have a good day, dear?" I asked.

"You know that new nurse? Shelly Donner?"

"Yeah… Wait, were you with her the _whole_ _time_ you were gone?"

He grinned broadly. "You have _no idea_ what you're missing. No offense, BJ."

BJ waved his martini dismissively. "None taken."

"Hey," Trap said, seeing the letters scattered around me. "Mail come?"

"Yeah, but Radar's holding yours hostage."

"What? Why?"

"Don't worry, he probably just wants to read it before you do."

Grumbling to himself, Trapper poured a martini and kindly topped off mine and BJ's before going to sprawl on his cot. I tore open the next letter and quickly scanned the contents; then sat up to bring the letter closer to my face and scan more intently. "Hey," I said to no one in particular.

"What?" Trapper and BJ both responded, Trap in an uninterested monotone and BJ with polite interest.

"My dad's seeing someone."

"Was he blind before?" Trapper mumbled.

I ignored him. "A veterinarian. He says a guy came into the clinic with a wounded dog, and Dad didn't know what to do, so he took the guy and the dog over to the local veterinary clinic…and met Sarah McAllister."

"Irish," Trapper said with approval.

"And according to Dad, she's got a body that won't quit."

"That's how it always is with us Irish."

"Do you all have mouths that won't quit, too?"

"Yeah, and our fists don't quit either."

"Boys," BJ said tiredly, "don't make me put you in time-outs."

I opened up the next few letters and read them quickly; they were as full of Sarah McAllister as my letters were full of BJ. I smiled, said softly, "Good for you, Dad," and reached for a pencil and pad of paper to write him back.

BJ took the discarded letters and began reading them for himself. "Sounds like your dad's in love, Hawk," he said, amused.

"There's a lot of that going around, isn't there? We gotta find you someone, Trap."

He snorted. "No thanks—I've already found my one true love." He raised his martini. "Alcohol."

"Cap'n McIntyre, sir?" a tiny little mouse asked from outside the door. "Are you in there?"

"Yeah, Radar."

"And yes," I added, "Winchester's gone."

Looking relieved, Radar came into the Swamp. "Where's my mail?" Trapper demanded.

"I've got it, sir, but, uh, the colonel wants to see you."

"About my mail?"

"Well, kinda, sir… And he, uh, says he doesn't want you to keep him waiting…"

Trapper sighed and pushed himself up. "Don't wait up for me," he mumbled at Beej and I, following Radar back outside.

"We won't," I cheerfully called after him.

A comfortable silence filled the Swamp, with me busily scribbling my letter to Dad and BJ still reading Dad's letters; when BJ finished with the last letter, he stacked them all in a neat pile and asked me, "So you're happy for your dad?"

"Of course I am," I said immediately, surprised by the question. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought you said once that he'd only ever gone out with one other woman after…"

"My mom."

"…and that it didn't work out because you were…"

"Stupid and resentful. Yeah. But if this…thing works out between us, it'll be good to know I'm not really abandoning Dad once you and me…get settled in. That he has a lady-friend to keep him company. It's a win-win situation, if you look at it in the right light."

He raised his eyebrows slightly. "And if you look at it in the wrong light?"

"In the wrong light, I'm still a stupid and resentful fifteen-year-old who could easily see this Sarah McAllister as trying to fill I place I don't really want filled. But I'm looking at it in the right light, thank you very much, and the wrong light can go crawl off in a corner and die. I want what's best for Dad. And if I ever say differently, I'd like you to do the honors of whacking me over the head with my own arm."

"Glad to," he said, grinning and briefly squeezing my knee. "There was something in one of those letters about a…an Annie Harri-something, I think…"

"Annie Harrison, yeah. What about her?"

"That she couldn't wait to—"

"Yah-_HOO_!"

The door was pulled open so violently it nearly swung off its hinges, and a small twister blew into the Swamp, grabbing me by the arms, yanking me off my bunk, and twirling me around in a circle, sending papers flying everywhere. A kiss was planted firmly and wetly on my lips, and another shout of joy temporarily deafened me. Trapper was dancing around the tent, shouting and laughing and waving a handful of papers in the air. He finally stopped in front of me again and crowed, "I'm goin' _home_!"

"Wha…?" I asked blankly.

"Home! I'm goin' home! I got my orders! _Home_!" A gleeful cackle, another clumsy kiss, and more graceless dancing; and when his words finally penetrated, I pulled him into a fierce hug and jumped up and down with him, laughing and congratulating and slapping him on the back.

We spent the next two days in a constant state of total drunkenness, BJ occasionally joining in—though he seemed more than content to sit back and be amused at how utterly foolish Trap and I acted when drunk. On the first day, we spent a few hours debating whether Minnie Mouse was preferable to Mickey Mouse; then we pointlessly (and poorly) hid in Margaret's tent until she discovered our clever hiding place (a blanket thrown over our heads) and chased us out with pillows and (when the pillows didn't work) the broken and very sharp pieces of a chair. On the second day, after a particularly good batch of gin, Trapper and I took a naked romp through the mess tent, and then snickered like schoolboys through Potter's subsequent lecture. We spent the rest of the day trying to sneak past the two corporals who'd been assigned to keep us inside the Swamp, but they were far too clever for their own good (and we far too drunk for our own good), and we eventually gave up and finished off the gin before slipping into drunken stupors.

* * *

Nursing hangovers the next morning, we said little as we set about the task of packing up every little bit of Trapper scattered around the Swamp. All the clothing, all the little trinkets, and anything of Winchester's we could filch without him noticing—we crammed it all into the two suitcases he'd brought with him when he'd first come to Korea, probably lightly-packed then but now bulging at the seams. He changed into his cleaned and pressed Class-A's shortly before the chopper was due to arrive to take him to Kimpo airport and his flight home; and then he turned to me, where I stood fidgeting nervously behind him—I was happy for him, I really was, I was glad he got to go home…but I was losing the brother I'd never had, the guy who'd kept me sane for so long in this insane place, the person I cared about more than anyone else in the world (except for Dad and BJ)…and what was there to say? No words could sum up everything I wanted to say to him—how much his friendship meant to me, how much I'd miss him, and everything I had to thank him for… We both stepped forward, closing the gap, and pulled each other into rib-creaking, shoulder-squeezing, back-pounding hugs. "You take care of yourself, Hawk," he whispered hoarsely.

"You too, Trap. Kiss the ground for me when you get home, okay?"

"You got it," he said as we started to pull back; he squeezed my shoulder, smiling his crooked smile, and then turned away, wiping at his eyes with his knuckles. He turned towards BJ, who'd been sitting awkwardly on his bunk for most of the morning, not wanting to intrude on the strange farewell ceremony; he stood up now, he and Trapper staring at each other for a long moment, until Trap finally stuck out his hand and BJ reached out to clasp it. "Take care of him, okay?" Trap said softly, jerking his head towards me. "He can get in a lotta trouble if you don't keep your eye on him."

BJ nodded solemnly. "I will."

"And you know that if you ever hurt him at all, I'll track you down, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

"Good," Trapper said, and they shook firmly. We grabbed his suitcases and headed out to the chopper pad; we were quickly surrounded by the entire camp, singing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow" and patting Trapper on the back and shouting parting snipes. The chopper landed just as we reached the pad, and I ran forward with one of Trapper's suitcases, he with the other, and we strapped them down in the pods; then I faced him, stood up straight, and lifted my hand to my head in one of my rarely-given salutes, a mocking gesture when directed at the Frank Burnses of the world, but a show of utmost respect towards any other variety of person. Trapper smiled and returned the salute, we slapped each other's shoulders, and then he climbed into the chopper and I dashed out of the way. The gathered crowd waved and shouted good luck as the chopper began to lift, and Trap pulled off his hat to wave it in the air, a huge grin splitting his face as the chopper rose higher and higher, became smaller and smaller, drew farther and farther away, until it finally disappeared behind the hills.

I wiped at my eyes, telling myself it was the brightness of the sun that was making my eyes water. BJ squeezed my shoulder lightly, and we turned with the rest of the crowd to head back into the camp.


	34. Over

Note: Time lapse! I guess you could call this chapter a "missing scene" from "Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen"—it takes place after the scene where everyone's in surgery listening to the radio, where we hear that peace has finally been reached. For convenience, we'll fill the black hole of time lapse with canon: Radar left and Klinger took over for him, all your favorite post-Trapper, post-Frank episodes took place, BJ grew his stupid mustache, yadda, yadda.

**- In Love And War** **-  
Chapter Thirty-Four: Over **

I walked slowly out of OR, tiredly dragging my scrub cap off and stopping to stare down at it. BJ stopped, too, and joined me in staring at the piece of white fabric.

"It's over," I said, soft, surprised. "That was the last of it. The last too-young soldier I'll ever operate on over here."

"It's over," BJ repeated wonderingly.

"_Over_."

"Pierce, Hunnicutt," Charles drawled tiredly from behind us, "is there any particular reason we're blocking the doorway?"

"It's _over_."

"Yes, Pierce, we are _all_ aware of the fact. Now _please_ get out of my way—I'd like to finish packing."

"Charles, don't you _understand_?" I demanded. "_The war is over_. That was the last OR session we'll ever have in Korea. It's—"

He shoved me inelegantly out of the way and stalked off to the Swamp.

Another voice came from behind, that of a weary, aging man who'd seen more than enough of war: "Hawkeye, BJ…could I ask a favor of you…one civilian to another?"

BJ smiled faintly as we turned to face Potter. "Of course."

"As long as it doesn't involve moving," I added.

"I-Corps wants a final inventory before we pack everything up; I'd ask Margaret to get some of her nurses to do it, but…"

"We'd be happy to help," BJ said firmly.

With a relieved smile, Potter said, "Thanks, boys. I appreciate it."

He walked slowly towards his office, and as soon as he was out of earshot, I asked BJ, "We're happy to help?"

"We need to talk."

"Oh. Then I guess we're happy to help."

We spent the first few minutes in the supply tent actually taking inventory and not saying much of anything; I happened to glance over at him and found that he was leaning against one of the shelves and staring at me very intently. I cleared my throat and asked neutrally, "So, what do we need to talk about?"

"The war's over."

"It is," I agreed.

"We need to talk about what we're going to do."

My heart started beating a panicky tempo. I'd been expecting this for the past few days—"It's been fun, but I changed my mind. I'm going back to my wife and baby. Sorry." I set my clipboard down on top of a crate of gloves and took a deep, bracing breath, crossing my arms over my chest and meeting his stare. To my surprise, he reached out to grab my elbow and lead me back towards the cot wedged between the two stacks of crates, and we sat at either end of the cot, leaning against the crates, our legs filling the space between us.

"I figure," he said, rubbing idly at the fingers of my right hand, which he'd firmly claimed within both of his, "that I'll head back to Mill Valley…" I nodded solemnly, not meeting his eyes—unable to. "Uh, Hawk…is there something wrong?"

I forced myself to look up and smile bravely. "No. It's fine. I…I understand."

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. "I'm…not quite sure we're both on the same page here…"

"We are," I assured him, vowing to maintain an air of nonchalance until I could go crawl off in a private corner to nurse my grief. "I can't say that I'm not…surprised, but I have kinda been…expecting it."

He leaned forward, reaching out to grab my chin and forcing me to meet his eyes. "Expecting what?"

"You…going back to Mill Valley…"

He looked utterly perplexed. "To explain to Peg that I'll be moving to Crabapple Cove."

I blinked, my jaw slipping open a little bit to form the "O" I couldn't give voice to, since my throat had closed up. After a little more gaping, I managed an, "Urk," which was about as close to words as I could get right now.

"What did you think I meant?" Realization dawned. "You…you thought I was…_leaving_ you?"

I had to clear my throat and tear my eyes away from his before I could find words again: "In my defense, I haven't had breakfast yet. My…my brain's working a little slow."

"No kidding," he mumbled, and then reached out to pull me against him, my back to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly, securely around me. "Didn't we talk about this before? That whole 'I'm not leaving you' fiasco we had a few months back? I thought we had this settled."

"I…forgot…"

"You forgot." He sighed, his breath ruffling my hair, and then nuzzled my neck. "Then I'd better remind you. I'm not leaving you. There. That better?"

"Technically, though, you _are_ leaving me…"

"Temporarily. In order to make my not leaving you permanent. I go to Mill Valley, explain everything to Peg, and then come to Crabapple Cove."

"Everything?"

"Well, as much as she needs to know. I probably won't go into details, since _something_ tells me there are a few people out there who wouldn't approve of this sort of thing."

"Strange, and I thought we were hiding out in here just for the hell of it."

"Perplexing, isn't it?"

"Quite."

I felt his smile against the side of my neck, his arms squeezing me gently. "So will you be fine all by your lonesome for a week or two?"

"That long?" I asked with a small but real amount of distress.

"Well, I don't know how long it'll take to make me a free man. I've never been through a divorce before, you know."

"Do you…want me to come with you?" I asked hesitantly. "For, you know…moral support?"

He seemed to consider it, and then said, "Much as I'd love for you to not leave my sight for longer than a few seconds, I think having you with me might…exacerbate the situation."

I nodded with a mixture of relief and disappointment—relief that I wouldn't have to actually meet the woman whose husband I was stealing, whose life I was ruining; disappointment because of my continual and indestructible cynicism. Past experience had taught me that anyone I loved was bound to leave me at some point—my mom, who I'd loved more deeply than any other person in my young life, before she'd gone to that far-off, untouchable place; the long string of girlfriends, intermixed with almost as many ultimately unsatisfying one-night stands and a healthy amount of boyfriends thrown in for variety, culminating in the disastrous Carlye debacle; Trapper, who I'd loved like a brother; Radar, who I'd loved like a favorite pet; Dad was the only person who hadn't left me. Sidney probably wouldn't've been surprised to find out about this fresh set of relationship issues—my inability to believe that BJ could see his wife and his baby without realizing what a mistake he was making in choosing me over them; my inability to believe that good things could happen to me, or that I deserved those good things when they rarely happened; my inability to trust BJ when he said he loved me and only me, that he'd do anything for me.

"Besides," he said, either not noticing my reverie or trying to casually pull me out of it, "you've got enough stuff to do once you get home to keep yourself busy."

"Me?" I repeated, allowing myself to be pulled from the grim thoughts. "What do _I_ have to do?"

"I'm assuming you haven't told your dad yet…"

"Well, it's not the sort of thing you tell someone in a letter. 'Dear Dad, I'm bringing home a war buddy for an indefinitely-long sleepover. Oh, and don't worry if you hear some strange noises coming out of my bedroom every once in a while…' "

"And I've decided to leave it up to you to work out living arrangements."

"How's that?" I twisted my neck around so I could meet his eyes.

"Appearances, Ben. People might get suspicious of those 'strange noises'."

"Hey, I'm not the one who whistles."

"I'm just saying, people might start to ask questions. We should…have a cover story, or something. The thing we'll tell people when they ask why I moved from California to Maine to shack up with a war buddy."

"Are you saying we can't live together?"

"Not at all! We just have to have an excuse for living together. Like…my divorce robbed me of all my money and worldly possessions, and you, as my best friend, were kind enough to open your doors to me until I can get back on my feet."

"And I happen to find an opening for you in the clinic, where you realize it's your long-lost dream to co-own a small-town clinic with the aforementioned war buddy and his father. Dad adopts you, and you keep living with us for convenience. There. My half's done. That wasn't too hard."

He sighed, and I could almost _hear_ him roll his eyes at me. "We'll talk about it later."

For a while, we sat there in silence, our heads nestled together, and it occurred to me that, if all things worked out like they should, I could spend every night of the rest of my life like this, just like this, being held by my lover, my love. The thought sent a happy thrill up my spine.

"What're you smiling about?" he demanded.

"It's over. It's finally over. I don't have to share you with the damn war anymore."


	35. Not Forgotten

I'm not going to lie to you. I did mention my tendency to get distracted, right? Well, my sudden obsession with MASH seems to have waned back to a less…overwhelming level, which means that ideas for writings unrelated to MASH have started popping into my head. And they're good ideas. Ideas I want to pursue.

I had planned for there to be three other chapters between this one and the previous one, but…I'm having enough trouble just writing this chapter. So, with all apologies, I'm going to end the fic slightly sooner than planned (though, if I'm being honest, it _has_ gone on longer than I'd ever have imagined it could have when I started writing it). Don't worry, you're not losing anything by my sudden lack of interest in continuing this fanfic (and I may someday go back and write those chapters—I could probably easily rekindle the obsession if I put my mind to it)—the chapters that would have come before this one were really just fluffy fillers, to lead up to this chapter…so I'll fill you in to what would have happened had I not turned so flaky:

BJ returned to Mill Valley, worked things out with Peg in a fairly amicable fashion, and jumped on a plane for Maine. He and Hawkeye were happily reunited, and set up shop in the home of Hawkeye's childhood, while (an approving) Daniel Pierce moved into town to set up shop with the charismatic and (to you, unknowing reader) mysterious Sarah McAllister; Daniel and Sarah later got married. Hawkeye joins his father in working at the local clinic, where another position conveniently opens up for BJ; the three of them co-own and co-run the clinic, and are rather successful. The locals approve of BJ in general, and (though rumors about the two "army buddies" run through the town) Hawkeye and BJ quickly become two of the most respectable people in the area, and they are rarely insulted in front of their backs (behind, maybe, but if ever in front, the wrong-doer is quickly taken care of by an imposing BJ). The boys make no overt attempts to hide what they are—if people want to assume they're lovers, then more power to them—but they don't go out of their way to offend the morals of society—they're discrete. BJ and Peg both make efforts to keep Erin a part of BJ's life; frequent trips to the home of the other are made by both parties, and all four are relatively satisfied with the situation. This chapter takes place about twenty years after the last chapter.

Just for clarification: This is the final chapter. Yes, "In Love and War" is finally coming to an end, and I release this little lovechild of mine and send it out into the world to fend for itself.

All that said, I'd like to give a bighuge thanks to everyone who kept reading, and especially those of you who kept reviewing—this never would have happened without you. It also never would have happened if I weren't insane enough to take on something as huge as this turned out to be, but let's not focus on that, kay?

**- In Love And War** **-  
Chapter Thirty-Five: Not Forgotten**

It was a cold day—strange, how the weather shifted so rapidly. 80 degrees yesterday, 40 today. Like always, I wasn't dressed for the weather—a light summer jacket, with very small pockets I could hardly fit my hands into. I did have the hat, but it did little in the way of covering my ears or any part of me that was cold—I'd decided long ago that it was a pointless (and ugly) thing, and one that I wore at every opportunity.

"I used to love this kind of weather," I mumbled. "The time right between fall and winter. Now it just makes my knees ache. Makes me think of frostbite, too, and then I start thinking about all the fingers and toes I had to cut off, which leads to me thinking about everything _else_, which leads to you. Funny, isn't it? Everything always leads back to you. I mean, I can start out thinking about tweezers, and I'll end up thinking about you. I suppose that really isn't funny… Where was I? Oh yeah. The shitty weather. I don't know how _you_ can stand it. You never even saw snow until you came up here. But then again, you always use the cold as an excuse to cuddle…"

"You're talking too much, Ben."

"Am I? Is this supposed to be silent? No one told me… You'd think someone would've told me if I was supposed to be silent, wouldn't you? Then again, you'd think _some_one would've told me _anything_—I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. How the hell am I supposed to know what I'm doing? I mean…I've never had to do this before. It's not like this is something you're born knowing how to do… So am I allowed to talk?"

"Yes."

"Good, that's what I thought. Someone would've said something if I wasn't, right?" I shivered in a sudden gust of wind, and tried to pull as much of my neck as possible into the shelter of my collar, ducking my head to keep the wind out of my face. "This is a really stupid fucking hat, you know," I said, grabbing at said hat as it attempted to fly off my head.

"Then don't wear it."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen. You kidding me? Not wear this stupid, ugly piece of cow crap?"

"Then stop complaining. It's your choice to keep wearing it."

"Pah, like I have much of a choice it in. It wouldn't feel right if I didn't. It's like a compulsion, you know? I _have_ to wear it, ugly as it may be. That sounds stupid."

"No it doesn't."

I kicked at a rock, which bounced down the manicured path before rolling off into the well-maintained grass. It was a pretty place, there was no denying that, but on a cold, overcast day like this, it was…gloomy, to say the least. That was probably how graveyards were supposed to feel.

"It doesn't feel right."

"What doesn't?"

"This. Me. Being…here. I don't want to be here. I don't like it here."

"You don't have to be here."

"Of course I do. It's even more of an obligation than this hat. I mean…I can't _not_ be here. This is…big. One of those things you're supposed to remember forever, you know? Not like I'll ever forget, but it's one of those things you can't miss. Not being here would be like forgetting an anniversary, but…a hundred times worse."

"You never remembered our anniversaries."

"That's not fair!" I argued, slightly hurt. "I remembered the last few."

"Yeah. You did."

I'd circled the graveyard twice now, and if I kept going, I'd probably start treading on maudlin territory; while I didn't want to be _happy_, I didn't want to depress myself either. I headed back to the point I'd started at, but slowed as I saw the tall figure standing there, far enough off that she probably couldn't see me yet, but close enough that I could clearly see the bundle of white roses she laid down next to my own bundle of forget-me-nots. I approached slowly, and she turned to meet me with a teary smile. "Hey, Uncle Hawky."

I put my arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against me; we stood there together, looking down at the headstone:

_BJ Hunnicutt,  
A good man, loved and missed by all  
February 6, 1923-October 7, 1976_

"How you doing, kiddo?" I asked after a little while.

"I'm fine," she said dismissively. "How are _you_?"

"A little lonely," I said truthfully—I could lie to Erin Hunnicutt just as well as I'd been able to lie to her father, which was to say not at all.

"I don't know how you do it," she said almost to herself. "If I lost Michael…"

"I try to find ways to forget," I murmured. "Sometimes, I…I pretend he's here with me, standing next to me. Sometimes I have whole conversations with him. It helps me feel…less alone. Like he's still here."

She nodded, and politely refrained from calling me a crazy old fool. "I don't think I could pretend he's not gone. It…wouldn't feel right."

"Well, that's just what works for me. You'll have to find your own way of coping."

A little ashamedly, she admitted, "I've been…having a lot of sex lately."

That startled a laugh from me. "With Michael, I hope!"

"Of course with Michael!"

"Well, we each have our own way of coping, and if screwing that lovely boy of yours until his brain explodes is what helps you…"

She slapped at my arm, and then leaned back against me, resting her head on my shoulder and twining her fingers through mine, seeking the comfort of human contact in much the same way her father always had.

A month. A month since I'd last held his hand. Last felt the brush of his fingers on my cheek, the press of his lips against mine; his breath against my hair, his tears soaking into my shirt; a month since I'd last met those piercing blue eyes, so full of life up until the very end.

Cirrhosis, caused by alcoholic liver disease—ironic, since I'd always drank more than him, and never would have considered BJ an alcoholic. We'd always said our drinking would catch up with us and bite us in the ass someday, and boy, had it ever. I hadn't had alcohol of any variety for months, and I doubted if I ever would again.

"I thought you were supposed to be back at school."

"Yeah, well, I decided to take a few days off. I never really got to…pay my final respects, with all the people around…"

I nodded in complete understanding and total agreement. I'd wanted the funeral to be a small, intimate service, family and closest friends only; but the townsfolk had kept showing up, in droves and flocks—which was, I suppose, a testament to BJ's being "a good man," but I was in no mood to appreciate the mass intrusion. It meant I had to keep my composure, stand tall and proud when all I wanted to do was collapse sobbing over the casket; I had to put on the front of being nothing more than a friend—best friend, but only a friend; couldn't use tender terms of endearment, or ask him to wait for me Up There—had to settle for calling him "my closest friend" and "the person who knew me best in this world"; and I had to play Hawkeye the mood-lightener and entreat him to "put in a good word for me with the Big Guy." I had to _be_ Hawkeye, when the person I wanted to be was Ben.

"Are you gonna be fine, Hawkeye? I can stay a few days, if you want company…"

"Are you kidding? After all the cash we dished out—and not to mention all the people we had to sleep with—to get you into Harvard? Nah-uh, you're going back to school first thing tomorrow morning, because I fully intend to uphold your father's promise of disowning you if you don't become a doctor."

"Thanks, Hawkeye," she said, rolling her eyes.

"But since you're here now…how about a nice lobster dinner at Jesse's? Word is, they've got enough crab meat to feed a whale…"

Laughing softly, she squeezed my hand and said, "I don't know about the crab, but you know I'll never turn down lobster." She glanced at me, glanced at the grave, and cleared her throat. "Why don't we meet at the house in…half an hour? I'll drop all my stuff off—"

"You're not staying."

"Sure, Uncle Hawky. Whatever you say." She kissed me on the cheek and headed for the parking lot, leaving me alone with the headstone, the grave, and the imagined BJ hovering behind and to my left.

"She's a good kid, Beej," I said softly. "She knows how to take care of herself, and still take care of everyone else, too. You should be real proud of her." I rubbed at my face, pulled his ugly fishing hat down a little lower over my eyes. "My therapist would probably say this is unhealthy. I'm still holding on to you—clinging. He'd probably say something like, 'It's time to let go.' What's he know? I'll let go when I'm good and ready, and not a second sooner. That's probably not healthy either—I should be moving on, moving forward with my life, but…I don't think I can. I don't think I _want_ to, because moving forward means leaving you behind. I mean…everyone tells me to 'remember the good things,' and then they say to put the past behind me—'the past is past, and the future's about to pass you by.' I can't remember you _and_ forget you, can I? I mean, I know I'm a master of contradictions, but I don't think even I can get my brain around _that_." I rubbed the bridge of my nose, flicked away a few tears with my thumb. "I won't forget you, Beej, I promise you that. I won't forget you, even if it means living in the past forever. I don't think I ever could forget you, even if I wanted to. You'll always be a part of me."

"_She'll always be a part of you, Son,"_ Dad had said as we'd stood a few feet to the left, roughly forty years ago, on a similar occasion—a month after Mom had died. A month after her death, and a few weeks before my eleventh birthday. I was feeling betrayed and abandoned, angry at her for leaving me and angry at myself for being angry with her, and so twisted up inside that I was trying to breathe through my toes—looking for any kind of comfort, which Dad had done his best to provide. _"As long as you remember her, and as long as you keep loving her, a piece of her will always be with you, here—" A gentle rap against my ribs, above my heart. "She didn't leave you, Hawkeye. She just…went a little farther away. She's not gone—as long as you remember her, she won't be gone."_

If you took out the 's' in all the 'she's and replaced the 'her's with 'him's, Dad's words were easily recyclable and applicable to the present situation. _"…a piece of_ him _will always be with you…_ He _didn't leave you…_he _just went a little farther away. …as long as you remember_ him he _won't be gone."_ As comforting now as it had been then. Made my clinginess feel a little more sane.

I sighed, smiled tiredly to the left at the three graves: Maria, Daniel, and Sarah Pierce. Mom, Dad, and Step-mom. But those were old hurts, reconciled to that painful corner of my mind where I didn't have to look at them constantly; BJ was still a fresh hurt, an open wound, a scab I kept picking at. Eventually, _maybe_, I could put him to rest back in that corner—a part of him, not all of him; there were some hurts you could never forget, hurts you didn't ever want to forget, because the hurt reminded you of the good times, and if you forgot the pain, you'd forget the pleasure, too. And knowing that…I'd take all the pain, the hurt, and the grief in the world, if it meant keeping my memories of the good times, the best times—the smiles, the laughter, the sex, the connection, and yes, the alcohol, too, because you couldn't have the good without the bad, and even the bad wasn't really all that bad anyway, because it'd been with him. I had my memories, and if they were all I had left of him, well…then I'd hold on to them forever, the good and the bad, and cherish both.

I reached out, rested my hand on the headstone, pressed my thumb against the carved _BJ_, and closed my eyes against the new rainstorm brewing behind my eyelids. "Miss you, Beej," I said thickly, rubbing my thumb over the two simple letters, overwhelmed by sudden longing—to see his face, to hear his voice, to feel his hands, to bring him back, to _anything_. Familiar emotions, familiar ground I was treading on, and familiar determination to overcome it, or at least outlast it. "I'll always miss you." I pulled my hand back slowly, took a deep breath, and turned away. Down the path, moving towards the parking lot, glancing back once—only once—to whisper, "I promise."

**END**

Sorry about not mentioning the character death, but I wanted it to be a surprise. And I, personally, think it's a pretty suitable ending. But if you're dissatisfied with it, contact me and we can argue it out. I love arguing.

Thanks again to all of you who stuck with me.

:>Penguins


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